The Infected
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: Eleven people, fifty million Infected, one sanctuary. All becomes irrelevant when your only choices are to live on or die trying.
1. The Reunion

**A/N: **Happy New Year, dear readers.

Welcome to the darkest bit I've ever written. The first few chapters are the introduction, so forgive me for the lack of tragedy and gore. I will make up for it, I assure you._  
_

* * *

_ "Dad, what's gonna happen when I die?"_

_Dell put away his guitar and looked at his daughter, resting comfortably in his lap. His nose wiggled upwards at the question. Mostly because it wasn't expected. A six-year-old shouldn't be asking such metaphysical questions. He brought his arm around her and pressed her tightly against his abdomen. _

_"Now, what kinda question is that, Sarah?"_

_"Ah was thinkin'," she started; "When we die, good people go to heaven, and bad people go to…" She cautiously looked at her father, waiting to hear her say the somewhat of a curse word._

_"…the other place… way down… The Bible said so." She ran the tip of her black lacquered shoe against the ground they were sitting on. The grass was full and it curled at the ends, much like her sister's unruly hair. Digging the tip of her toe into the grass blades, into the soil, she remembered what she was asking about._

_"And their bodies go in the ground."_

_"Yes," Dell said, swallowing some spit nervously. He looked at his older daughter, Pepper, standing near a creek and looking into the distance. Green pen and sheet of paper in hand, she was thinking of writing a poem. Her long red locks flew in the mid-autumn wind. His fingers ran through Sarah's thin, wheat-colored hair. She and her sister were nothing alike, only similar because of the fact that they made Dell's life beautiful in their own little ways. Sarah looked up at her father's face, surrounded by the leaves covering the weeping willow they were sitting under. The sun shined through the branches, and it gave the leaves a picturesque, golden gleam. Sarah loved this tree for some reason. She loved this tree, sitting alone in the field of her grandmother's country home. _

_"They go in the ground if you bury them," she said. "I don't want to be buried."_

_With that thought in mind, she stretched her hand across the strings of her dad's guitar. They let out a melody. It wasn't music, but she found it lovely, nonetheless._

_"When I die, I want to be put under a tree, just like this one. No casket, no dirt, nothing. Ah just wanna be put under a tree. Ah want it to be a tree just like this, daddy."_

_Dell looked into her big, brown eyes before sighing and embracing her tightly._

_"Now Ah don't want you talking about that Sarah," he said to her. "Not while Ah'm around. And don't worry about dying. It'll be many, many years before you have to worry about that."_

_She giggled as he picked her up in his arms._

_"Now, I reckon Ma's got some apple pie made 'specially fer you. Whaddya say we go back into the house."_

_The little girl nodded._

_"Pepper!" Dell called over his daughter. "Time to go!"_

_"Jesus, alright, Ah'm coming already!" She said irritated. It took her a long time before she finally stood up and unenthusiastically made her way towards her family. Dell smiled at her grumpy expression. Soon, the three of them were off, off to see Grandma and Irene, off to see the culinary masterpieces they created. Sarah looked at the tree for a while._

_"I want it to be a willow," she said, resting her little head against her dad's shoulder. This was the last thing she said about the subject._

* * *

"Daddy?"

Dell groggily opened his eyes. The sun shined from the curtains and onto his face, the beams falling right on his left cheek. It was morning already; he had to go back to work today. He blinked away some sleep from his eyes and looked at the still blurry image before him. Sarah was sitting on the bed, on the slightly ruffled sheets Irene had left unmade. A soft smell of cinnamon flew through the room, and it perked Dell up a bit. The dream he had was slowly fading away, and it was almost gone when he turned his head over to his daughter.

"Hey… Mornin'," he said to Sarah in a croaked voice. His daughter smiled at him.

"Mommy says pancakes are ready."

* * *

_"So what do you make of Emily?"_ Asked a woman on the television screen.

The chat show was now discussing the unimportant information about today's pop culture. Dell squinted at the screen, eating his pancakes greedily. Irene sipped her coffee in her dressing gown, yawning occasionally. Sarah poured a small lake of maple syrup onto her stack on pancakes. Her eyes were glued to the screen, which now showed a slightly blurry black-and-white image of a blonde girl singing into a microphone. It then switched back to the neatly dressed woman, interviewing an old critic, a frown never leaving his face as he shot daggers at the woman with his gaze.

_"Personally, I don't know what the world has come to if it keeps praising mediocre singers like this," _he grumbled.

_"Oh, it's hardly the world. She's only popular here in the South. I hardly think she's worldwide. And you have to admit, she does have talent."_ The woman seemed more defensive about the blonde from Tennessee.

_"Her talent is unimpressive, at best. She should just stick to singing in clubs and bars or…whatever. And the thing that utterly disgusts me, yo-…you know what disgusts me?"_ He asked, though he was just about to give his answer.

_"The fact that's she's doing concerts, sold-out concerts! Well I suppose it's not surprising… the halls she's singing at have the capacity of ten brain-dead hicks."_

_"Not very objective, are we?"_ The woman teased.

_"I don't understand!"_ He raised up his arms in a frustrated manner. _"We have so many brilliant country singers, and we choose to report and fund this one who's… well… not at all that good. And that's putting it nicely! We don't need another pretty face. And we don't really need hers, either."_

_"But you have to admit, she is gorgeous. And her fanbase-…"_

_"Her fanbase consists of deaf, brain-dead teenagers!"_ He interrupted the woman rudely. _"On that note, I don't think she's that good-looking at all. I wouldn't want to see her face every day unless I absolutely had to."_

_"But Dr. Stinson, surely…"_

_"No, no, let me tell you…"_ He cupped his hands and began to move them slowly, trying to emphasize every word he said.

_"She looks like…"_

_"Uh-huh…" _The woman nodded.

_"Somebody wanted to make a copy of Grace Kelly…"_

_"Go on…"_

_"And then… Something… somewhere… went horribly, horribly wrong."_

_"Oh, come on, now! You have to at least admit that-"_

With a click of the remote, Dell switched off the programme, turning the image on the television into a small, bright-green dot. Sarah shouted a sound of protest, but Dell didn't seem to recognize it.

"Ah can't watch that anymore."

"I know," Irene said through her teeth. "The way nobody has anything to really say about the girl… Everyone either worships her or hates her, poor thing…"

"No, Ah mean, Ah'm tired of hearing about that dog-gone Emily Payne every day. Ah mean," he exhaled sharply, showing impatience; "Ah have been on this vacation fer two weeks, and every day, everyone only talks about Emily. Emily this, Emily that… The man was right, she is overrated."

Irene bobbed her head down and looked at the soft brown foam floating on her coffee. She sighed and soon felt her husband's hand on her back.

"Now come on… don't tell me you actually like the girl!"

Small tears began to form in Irene's eyes and drip down her cheeks.

"She just-" She choked up. "She reminds me so much of her…"

Sarah walked out of the dining room to leave the sticky plates into the sink. Dell's eyes watched Irene's, becoming glassier and glassier as the salty liquid rolled off her soft eyelashes. For some reason, he was glad that Sarah wasn't in the room to see this. It would have broken her little heart.

"There, there, Irene…" Dell tried to comfort her. "She's alright, Irene. Our lil' girl can take care of herself. She's safe, Irene. She's probably just fine."

"You say that Dell, but you don't really mean it…" She sniffed, cleaning her nose with her sleeve. "Ah… Ah don't understand… where could she have gone?"

Dell shrugged and kissed her forehead. This seemed to calm her, though not much.

It all happened so long ago, last Christmas. Pepper had left her husband with nothing more than a note. The boy was heartbroken, but not as much as her family was. They searched for her for months, but to no avail. Dell shook his head at Irene.

"Ah know whatcha thinkin'… maybe that girl's Pepper. Believe me, Ah've gone through that too. Every girl seems to remind you of her at one point. Heck, even Sarah once reminded me of her. But you have to admit that, the girl, Emily? She isn't Pepper. There is no way in hell that she's Pepper. Ya understand?"

Irene nodded and looked at the large clock on the wall. It was time for Dell to leave. Her husband gingerly took a single step towards the door and smiled at his wife.

"Don't worry, Irene. She's _fine._"

"I know." Irene stood up from her seat and grabbed the coffee mug firmly. "But I still worry about her, ya know?"

A short while later, Dell found himself back on the road, thoughts of his missing daughter still running through his head.

* * *

"Yo, hahdhat!" The Bostonian shrieked upon seeing his favorite Texan. He grasped him tightly, cutting off his air supply. "How's it been man, how's it goin'?"

Dell shrugged.

"Same as ever. Two weeks, gone in a snap. Now," he said, stretching out the fingers of his gunslinger, "Who's ready to kick some BLU ass?"

"Hmmph hmm!" The Pyro said enthusiastically. It then rushed out of the base, flamethrower in hand. It didn't even realize that the battle started in about five minutes. The Engineer placed his hand over his chin and contemplated his surroundings. Everything was the same way it was when he left. The Demoman was drinking, the Spy was smoking, and the Heavy was cleaning his mini-gun.

"Yo, Doc, come greet Engie!" Scout shrieked at the doctor, who was currently talking on the phone.

"Uh-huh," he said distantly.

"Come on, doc, he's right here!"

"Bitte, Scout! I am on zhe phone!" The Medic snapped, grasping the phone handle and showing it to the Scout. The Bostonian shrugged.

"Jeez man. Well, come say hi ta him later, OK?"

"Ja, ja, ja OK," he said, shooing away the Bostonian. He then turned to the phone and muttered something into it, promising the person on the other line that he would call them back.

In a matter of seconds, the Administrator's voice boomed through the speakers, announcing the beginning of the mission. They had five minutes to get into the resupply room. The Spy cloaked himself first, and soon everyone rushed out of the hall and towards the sterile white room. The Engineer turned his shoulders back until they both cracked. Satisfied with the sound, he stepped towards the door, only to feel something restraining him.

It was a hand, a gloved hand, gingerly placed over his shoulder. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Sniper, staring at the Texan from behind his tinted glasses.

"Hey," said the Texan to him. "Didn't see ya there, Stretch."

"Oi've been in the back," he said, tilting his head towards the depths of the corridor. "You, uh… you got, uh… any news about the Sheila?"

Dell narrowed his eyes and looked at his work boots. Sometimes, words are redundant. This was one of those times. It took Sniper barely a second to release the Texan's shoulder.

"Oi see… Ya sure it wosn't the 'usband?"

Dell almost managed to laugh at this remark.

"The husband? Nah!" He tossed his hand back, shaking his head; "Mikey wouldn't do nothin' to hurt her. He's a slimy little weasel that rustles mah jimmies, but he wouldn't do nothin' to her."

"Hmph. Don't defend him too much." Mundy grasped his sniper rifle securely and moved towards the exit. "Oi've been in situations loike this all moi loife, and trust me, it's always the 'usband."

"Well, if Ah do get somethin' on Mikey, Ah'll let you know." Dell rubbed the back of his neck as he walked past the marksman. He was about two feet away from the door before he turned back, his hand still pressed against his neck.

"Uh, Stretch?" He gulped, as though what he was going to say was so utterly complex that he shouldn't even say it out loud. The marksman looked at him briefly, not asking him about what he was going to say, but rather having his silence give the tinkerer permission to speak.

"Ya know that Ah left mah family to come here? Ah left them on bad terms… hell, Ah wasn't sure if they were gonna take me back, but…"

The tinkerer watched the tips of his work boots, worn out and beginning to shave.

"When… when Pepper left, they were all pretty uhhappy. Ah'm not sayin' that Ah wasn't, but Ah handled it better, mostly 'cuz Ah had to. Ah think… Ah think they only took me back because…" He swallowed some saliva once again, trying to wet his dry throat in order to spit the words out.

"If Pepps hadn't left, Ah don't think Ah'd have a family still. Ah sometimes think that, if she hadn't left, mah family would still hate me."

And quite soon, the Sniper's and the Engineer's eyes connected, in one brief, powerful flash.

"Am I a bad person if I'm slightly glad that she left?"

The Sniper shrugged, unsure of what else to say.

"Ah see…"

The work boots dragged themselves across the floor, with the pace of a common garden snail.

The Sniper continued to stare at the tinkerer, slowly making his way to the room. Inside he felt strange. He asked too many questions about the girl, he knew that. Maybe he'd get suspicious. But then again, the man had the awareness of a trout. If he kept the questions about her disappearance down to a minimum, he mused, he would be in the clear. He knew that he shouldn't care about the girl at all. Then again, a part of him wanted to know where she was, who she was now. A part of him cared.

A part of him. Just one really small part.

As the Spy appeared before Mundy, causing him to shriek and clutch his chest, all of those thoughts spread far and wide across and out of his mind. The masked mercenary sneered at the petrified Australian.

"Deep in thought, aren't we, Mundy?"

"You-!" The Sniper gasped, commanding his body to regain control over itself. "You almost gave me a bleedin' heart-attack!"

"Oh please!" The Spy rolled his eyes. "With all that coffee you've been drinking it ees a true miracle zhat you 'aven't gotten one before."

As the sharpshooter's breath became slow and even, he stood straight up and raised his eyebrow at the Spy.

"Woi are you here, Spook? The foight's about to start."

"I am only here to… prevent you from doing or saying something utterly eediotic."

"… you wot mate?"

The Spy grasped the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, begging the good Lord for patience.

"I think you know what I mean." He released his nose and looked into the marksman's eyes. "Your curiosity about his daughter is understandable… he considers it friendly."

"…yeah?"

The Frenchman stared at the Australian for some time. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but with every passing moment, the Sniper's mind was getting clearer and clearer still. With a tug of his glove, the Spy disappeared into thin air, an ominous smoke flying through the hall. The words said through the haze flew into Mundy's ears and straight into his mind. He would remember this warning forever.

_"Try not to make it too friendly."_

"…roight." The marksman cleared his throat and hurried outside. "Roight. Oi won't."

So he went outside, prepared to fight. It was strange, somehow. After two weeks spent with his nosy parents, shooting chunks of lead into other people's heads seemed like a vacation. The anticipation of the thrill that came right after the siren announced the beginning of the battle made his crimson blood rush through his veins. He absolutely loved these brawls, which often resulted in his team's victory. He would have them every day if given the chance. He would adore a chance to do nothing but fight, day after day, every single waking moment.

But little did Victor Mundy know that this chance would come up sooner than he or anyone else planned.

* * *

**A/N:** The number 219 was used in most of my fics. It usually pops up just before something goes horribly, horribly wrong. This fic is no exception.


	2. The Approval

**A/N:** I know what you're thinking. "Less talking, more gore and emotional torture."

Patience, my darlings. This is called the introduction for a reason. And for those who say I put too many OCs in my fics, I want it to be known that Graveline and Synestra are not _technically _OCs.

* * *

The wide doors of the resupply room swung open and in came the brigade. The brigade consisted itself of nine, very tired men. Just returning from yet another victorious battle, they all shared their thoughts on the outcome. Some mercenaries were more thunderous than the others. A young Bostonian ran into the room, his arms stretched high up into the air, and his lungs creating an inhuman sound of joy as he shrieked to celebrate what he considered his own, personal victory.

"WOOOOOOO!" He then turned to the other, quieter but almost equally satisfied mercenaries just stepping over the threshold. "Aw, man, didja see dat? Didja see dat? I was on fiyah! And all dem BLUs were like:" He imitated them in a comically squeaky voice; "'_Oh, please, Scout, don't! You're so strong and intimidatin'!'_ And den I was like: '_No, fuck you!'_ And then everything went like; POW!" The boy jumped halfway across the room, from the ground and into the large, metal lockers. He did not mind the pain, he did not care for the metal locker door that was now unhinged and hanging. The Scout began laughing, his voice becoming high-pitched with each burst.

"I know, son," the Engineer said through a smile; "We were all there."

"But, dude!" The Scout managed to rummage himself out of the clump he formed and stood up, as stable as a newborn calf. "Those BLUs did have a pretty good strategy."

"Well as good as it was, it couldn't have beaten ours! Though I still think we should have gone with my original plan." The Soldier pointed at himself.

"Ya mean yer plan when we try and distract the BLUs by wearin' festive hats?" The Demoman guessed, looking at the Soldier's widened image through his brown bottle of Scrumpy. The Soldier crossed his arms stubbornly.

"It worked in nineteen-forty-seven!"

"No it didn'."

"IT DID TOO, MAGGOT!"

"Heavy thinks BLUs did good job protecting tiny briefcase," said the Heavy, wiping off some blood from his mini-gun with a small red rag that was originally white. "When BLU Engineer make seven sentries in one place, Heavy thought the battle was done. But not for them," he said, raising up his index finger. A puff of smoke entered his nostrils and made his wince. The Spy reclined beside him, examining the cigarette tucked in between his fingers.

"It's a good thing I was zhere, or you eediots vould steel be getting keeled over and over again by those machines."

"Um, you where there?" The Scout chuckled. "Shut up, all you did was put on a few of those thingamajigs."

"… you mean zhe sappers?"

"Yea, dat. I mean, I was the one who carried the whole mission!"

"Hmmd mme!"

The Scout sighed.

"Fine, yes. And you, Pyro!" He pointed at the mumbling abomination. "Good thing you were there, spinning around and shit."

"Thhmk hmm," said the firebug, not understanding sarcasm.

"Pyro and Scout not credit to team," Heavy stated, ignoring the piercing gaze coming from the Bostonian. The child jumped up in anger and spat out an insult.

"Whaddya mean, not cred? Bitch, I am like the king-a-cred! I mean, I own cred! I live cred! If cred were a lady, I'd…"

"You would stand around eet awkwardly before it made an actual advance on you and then you'd faint?" Spy guessed.

"Fuck you, Spoi."

"Scout and Pyro not credit," Heavy said dryly. "Or Spy."

At that sentence the Spy retracted his tongue back inside his mouth that was directed at the young Bostonian. He narrowed his eyes at the Heavy.

"Medic was credit to team. No Medic, there would be no team. But Medic does not boast like leetle Scout."

Suddenly, everyone in the room silenced themselves. Heavy was right. Medic never boasted about victories, even when he was sometimes completely responsible for them. And now, the doctor couldn't be heard. He couldn't even be seen. The group looked around, trying to see where the doctor was.

* * *

The Medic held the smooth phone handle, twisting the spiral cord around his index finger. The mechanism clicked and buzzed as the operator connected him to the corporation, _The Corporation Corp. Inc._ The large wall clock seemed to tick slower and slower each second, constantly reminding him how much he needed this chance. He needed to hear the voice coming from the other end. It was his last and only remaining link to practicing medicine outside of the battlefield. One phone call, a project, a confirmation. That's all it took. It would take him just one simple phrase, one carefully thought out permission to launch the drug into use. He had heard about this supposed miracle drug. At first, he considered it a fib. A sham. He considered it a waste of money and resources. But after all those time-consuming tests, after all the projects and successful operations ran on rodents, it was finally time. It was time to create the next medical marvel, to test the new drug on a human specimen.

All they needed was his approval. And all he needed was everyone else's.

_"Corporation Corporation Incorporated, how may I help you today, Sir?" _A peppy voice chirped at the other end. Though the Medic convulsed because of the woman's high-pitched greeting, he introduced himself, albeit curtly.

_"Ah, yes,"_ the woman said. The sound coming from the line resembled crumpling. It was as if she were shifting around a stack of papers. _"Have you reached your decision? Is it a confirm?"_

"You are saying zhat all zhe tests came out positive? There has been no damage to the leukocytes?" He asked, still not giving his answer.

_"Yes, Sir, all the tests ran on our lab rats confirmed decrease in stomach ulcers and various lesions. I do think this is Corp. Corp. Inc.'s finest and most complex drug yet."_

"Do not get carried away, Dr. Graveline. Zhe drug may be in zhe later stages of testing, but it's still being tested. Don't jump in the ocean until you're sure zhat you can valk on vater."

The phone line went silent for a mere second, excluding the soft crackling sound that was considered to be normal in this coded number.

_"With all due respect, doctor Dienstag,"_ she said, a wisp of venom in her tone, _"We are not talking about walking on water. We are talking about something different, something much, much more impressive."_

Her tone became quieter, sterner, somehow.

_"Your colleagues do not know about this operation. You cannot keep it a secret forever, you know? And what better way to let them know, then to create a world renowned anti-cancerogen? Just say the word, and consider your medical license unrevoked… Who knows, doctor Dienstag? If all goes well, this will go beyond the Corp.'s personal achievement. This will be Nobel Prize worthy."_

His eyes glistened at the thought of reaching for the elusive million-dollar Prize. To feel it in his hands, to put it on display for everyone to see. He had to remind himself to keep calm, that the Prize was still far from his reach, and that this would only be the first step towards it.

"I have put my sweat, blood and tears into this project. If it fails, my blood vill be on your hands."

The woman did not respond.

Heimlich sighed and took off his glasses. His steely blue eyes were dry and hard as marbles. Bringing himself to blink, he inhaled deeply.

"Nobody is listening in on this? This is entirely confidential."

_"All our lines are coded. It would take a super computer to decode this conversation. The line is safe, as are our future clients and your medical license, I assure you."_

The Medic's hands trembled as he said a phrase, one single sentence that would mark his entire future. This one simple phrase could either bring him to be the most beloved, or the most despised man in the universe. Either way, his medical achievement would not go unrecognized.

"Do it."

* * *

Dr. Graveline's high-heeled boots clicked against the marble floor of the _Corporation Corporation Incorporated Laboratories_. Other scientists stared at her as they would at a superior, as she led this project along with Saxton Hale as the donator, and Heimlich Dienstag as her own personal advisor and the only doctor brave or mad enough to partake in this project.

The new solution, she mused as she scurried down the long, echoing hallway, was to be simply named EQUINOX-B-52. It represented a turn in medicine, an antibody with the strength of fifty-two radioactive plutonium isotopes. This masterpiece took decades to create, each molecule of E-B-52 containing one nanomole of pure Australium. Difficult to find, almost impossible to create, and without the use of Heimlich Dienstag's ÜberCharge to fuse the elements together, it would still be a hazy dream. But now, fame and fortune were at her fingertips. She would have to share credit, and such fine credit it was.

The new medical marvel was at her delicate fingertips.

But for now, they'll be testing a new anti-depressant.

The door swung, exposing her assistant checking many, many apparatuses and test-tubes. And there, sitting on the bed, cried her first test subject, a man in his early twenties. He had been recently diagnosed with chronic depression. He laid on the white sheets, crying his eyes out.

"Did he approve the cancer thing?" Asked the assistant as Dr. Graveline adjusted her goggles across her immaculate dark hair and over her large, blue eyes. The doctor nodded.

"Good. I can't wait to test it!" The assistant said, opening a refrigerator and taking out a small test tube filled with an almost gelatinous brown liquid. She held it carefully, with a pair of tongs. "Truth be told, I've been waiting to stick a needle in that guy," she said, pointing at the crying man. "He keeps talking about his wife."

"Honey-boo!" He cried, sniffing loudly. "Why have you forsaken me? I loved you! I loved you so much!"

"Terrible," said Graveline, shaking her head. "Will the injection be ready soon?"

"Almost," answered her assistant, squinting her eyes and letting her pinkish tongue slip out of her mouth as she extracted the liquid into a smaller tube.

"Are you sure the cancer thing will work?"

"If you're asking if the EQUINOX-B-52 would surpass all its expectations, I'm absolutely positive. So is doctor Dienstag."

"Honey-boo! Honey-boo, honey, da-ha-harling!" The man cried again. "I remember this one time, in fifth grade; I was coming home from the market. I carried a pack of diapers. She saw and asked me if I had a baby brother and sister like she did. No, I answered. I said I had an incontinent grandmother. And then she nodded and walked away… And then I waved…"

The man stretched out his arm and flailed it across the air, his eyes turning watery and staring deep into a bottomless pit of melancholy. The two doctors felt sorry for the man, desperate enough to undergo this highly painful procedure.

"Alright, Sir," said Graveline, taking the needle from her assistant, Synestra. "I am going to inject the serum straight into your temporal lobe, so I'm going to need you to turn your head, and-"

Graveline then looked at the man, strumming a guitar and singing a little tune while tears poured out of his large, green eyes. She felt incredibly bad for the heartbroken man, but she was mostly confused. Where the hell did that guitar come from? The man strummed an F chord, and it rung softly through the room. The song he played had absolutely no rhythm, apart from the man's sobs that cut through the verses.

_Yesterday, a-ha-all my troubles seemed so f-f-far away..._

_Now it l-lo-looks as though they're h-h-heere to stay_

_Oh I believe in ye-he-he-hesterday..._

Synestra had had enough of the man's theatrics and snatched the needle from doctor Graveline. With a sharp poke, she inserted the long needle in the side of the young man's head, and soon the brown liquid surged through his body, surrounding the tissue and mixing with the blood and lymph. The man became flaccid. The guitar was dropped on the floor, forgotten. His screaming became incoherent after a while, and was replaced by a series of short sobs. The pain was still there, but this time, it wasn't emotional, and it was far less annoying. The man wailed for some time, asking them to leave him alone and let him die. Synestra nodded at Graveline, and the two turned around in order to leave the room.

"And now what?" Synestra asked as the two of them walked out of the experiment bay, the man's faint wailing still audible. Graveline took off her rubber gloves and tossed them in the nearby trashcan. She smiled at her assistant.

"And now," she lifted her goggles back on the top of her head; "We run some paperwork for testing the approved serum."

* * *

**A/N: **Some of my author's notes are not relevant to the story.

Also, soaking instant noodles longer makes them more filling.


	3. The Escapee

The Scout's eyes narrowed as he watched the two cards he held in his bandaged hands. They weren't especially high; he probably wouldn't get many points if he played them. The tangy aroma of the cigars wisped through the air and irritated his nostrils to the point where his throat shrunk and his lungs let out an occasional cough, as though they were begging for precious, untainted oxygen. The other mercenaries looked at the Bostonian, his eyes focusing on the cards he was about to play. Small droplets of sweat formed on his forehead. He knew that his colleagues were growing impatient.

"Well? Any toime now, ankleboitah," Sniper growled, fingering the thin brim of his cards. The Scout bit his bottom lip and huffed loudly.

"Huh? Uh…Go fish," he said clumsily.

"We're playin' poker, dummy!" The Engineer said through a laugh, more focused on his cigar than the game. That's when the Scout's head cleared up, and he could finally understand where he was, and what they were playing.

"I know, I know, I ain't a retard," said the Scout, narrowing his eyes at the cards. He honestly never played Texas Hold 'Em in his entire life, but for some reason, it was the only game these men wanted to play. He looked at the measly amount of ten-dollar bills by his side. He slid them across the table, into the centre.

"All in," the boy finally said. The other men reacted accordingly to their cards. Sniper and Heavy called while maintaining a steely poker-face, the Pyro scratched its optical mask unsure of what to do with the cards, and the rest of the team folded. It took Pyro almost half a minute to fold, or in its case, burn the playing cards with a lighter. The three remaining mercenaries stared at the pot, currently containing one hundred and forty dollars. To the mercs, that was an equivalent of something an ordinary man would find behind his couch cushions.

"So whatcha got?" Asked the Scout.

The Sniper let out a sigh from the back of his throat and checked two playing cards onto the green, carpeted surface of the poker table.

"Three jacks," he said, not particularly enthusiastically. "Heavy?" He looked towards the marksman, inserting his pinkie inside his ear and twisting it.

The large Russian showed his two hole cards. Combined with the cards on the table, the Russian had a solid two pair. The two looked at the Scout, who placed his cards onto the table with a sheepish grin. His cards were terrible, barely worth looking at, let alone going all in.

"You have the worst luck, mate," said the Sniper, greedily dragging the cash towards him. The Bostonian crossed his arms before stomping out of the room, claiming that the game was fixed.

"Another round?" Heavy suggested, gathering the cards.

"Nah," said the Texan, stretching his neck back. "Ah think Ah'm gonna have an early night. Tomorrow's fight is mighty early, ain't it?"

"Affirmative," Soldier said as his helmet dropped over his eyes. "The fight begins at oh-six-hundred hours. Lights out at twenty-three-hundred exactly!"

"Can you noe say 'leven o'clock like a normal humon bein'?" The Demoman slurred, rubbing his temples as he tried to relieve himself from tonight's early hangover. The Soldier muttered something under his breath, oddly not in the mood to give the Scot a piece of his mind. With a lot of muttering and hissing coming from the cigars being put out, the group returned to their quarters. The Pyro was the last to leave the dimly lit room. It switched the remaining lights off, immediately regretting this decision, as seeing the cigar smoke, scratch that, any smoke wisp across the bright light relaxed it more than anything else. Sometimes it relaxed it more than the glorious rising flames, engulfing the fabric and flesh of those unfortunate BLUs. It turned on its heel, and began walking down the hall extremely slowly. And there he saw him; the Bostonian. He was sitting on the floor, looking away from the firebug. His arms were crossed at his chest and his knees brought close to his body. For a second, the Pyro couldn't even recognize the boy, resembling a clump of red fabric and stubbornness.

"Hmmpt's thmm mhhthr, Shmmt?" It asked the boy.

"'S nothin'," he responded.

The Pyro stared at its friend for a while, before shrugging and continuing its way towards its room.

"It's just dat-!" The Scout said hastily. He didn't even have to look at the Pyro to know that the creature stopped itself and looked at the Bostonian with worry in its hypothetical eyes.

"This place gets so boring aftah a while, ya know? I mean, I come back from Boston, and I fight a whole bunch, and everything's cool, right? But den, dere's dis kind-a shit, right? Everything starts to get, uh… wat's da word… repetitive!" The boy raised his arm up, as if thinking of this word was a personal triumph.

"Yea, dat's right, repetitive! So den what do I do? I play frekin' poker with these knuckleheads and lose all my pocket change. I need dat for the soda machine! It ain't fair!"

At that point it was unclear to the Pyro if the Bostonian was getting rather homesick, or was just a very sore loser. Regardless, the firbug crouched and put its arm around the Bostonian's bony shoulders. The feel of rubber against his bare flesh usually terrified the Bostonian, but this time he found the gesture oddly calming.

"I just… I just wish something exciting would happen! Like… like anotha' horde of robots comin' round, ya know? Maybe some zombies… zombies would be cool… And I wish… I wish every battle could be like… sudden death. No respawn, every man for himself, ya know? That would be the awesomest shit evah, wouldn't it!?"

"Hmmt thmmthlly whmmld!" The Pyro agreed, its muffled voice turning higher by at least an octave. But alas, the Bostonian's current enthusiastic face turned grim once more, as he shifted his gaze towards the dust, covering the corner of the room.

"I wish… I wish I was somewhere else. I wish… I wish for one, true battle, the best battle of my life! A battle _for_ my life, ya know? The one you don't plan to the very last detail, the one where every last decision you make counts!"

"… hmm mhhn lhmmk ahn hmmpochmmlypshe?"

The Scout's blue eyes widened as he stared at the mumbling abomination. Yes. That word described his dream perfectly, but now that it was said, it seemed almost cruel to wish for something like that. Still, a buck-toothed smile decorated the boy's visage, thinking about the word.

"Not the word I wanted to use, but…Yeah. Yeah, I mean exactly like an apocalypse." He chuckled. "Too bad it's not comin' anytime soon. But hey. You're a pretty good friend to say it without getting all judgmental of me."

The Pyro chuckled and tossed its other hand back nonchalantly. Somehow, an apocalypse wouldn't be such a bad idea. But the boy was right, it mused, there would be a cold day in the fiery, beautiful hell before either of them got a chance to see it.

But oh, how little they knew…

* * *

Graveline pushed open the door with her freshly manicured hand, stomping furiously out of the streets and into her laboratory. Her long overcoat moved swiftly with every impatient step. She ignored her co-workers, asking her unnecessary questions and giving her information that she didn't need or that she didn't care about. She stormed into the experiment bay. She looked at the broken tubes, the overpowering smell of ammonia, broken glass and dented instruments. Her eyes switched hastily onto the hospital bed, to see her patient.

And there he wasn't.

"Where is he?" She growled at her assistant, slowly rising up from a puddle of ibuprofen, interferon and her own blood. The only thing Graveline could make out for sure was that Synestra's left eye had been wounded, bleeding severely through her left hand she used to cover it.

"The patient…" she mumbled while Graveline hastily brought her some gauze to temporarily wrap her eye. A small crowd of spectators was appearing at the door. Graveline cursed man's natural curiosity.

"Stay with me, Synestra!" Graveline commanded. "Where is patient two-nineteen?"

"He…" the young woman gulped, blood still dripping down her cheek. "He became unstable. He had endured stomach cramps for a long period of time. I had to tie him up to keep him still… At one point, he undid himself from the bed and jumped me!"

The straps used to restrain the patient were torn, every fiber bursting like a flower at the ends. The straps were cast away, in great hurry and impatience, one might assume.

"He went for the door… I-I tried to stop him, but he pushed me! He pushed me onto the scalpel! By the time I came to, he… he…"

The scalped lay on the floor, covered in Synestra's blood. It was a miracle, Graveline thought, that it didn't penetrate deeper and killed her. Judging from the depth of the gash, the blade came incredibly close. The rough fabric was slowly becoming red and heavy with blood. This girl needed medical help. Graveline turned to the spectators.

"Get her into surgery, immediately!"

The medical personnel grabbed the girl, rushing her into the corridor. They chattered, asking her about the incident. Useless, Graveline thought. Talking about it will not bring her eye back, nor will it heal the wound. And it will certainly not bring back the escaped patient.

His whereabouts were her concern. The drug was unstable; it had a disastrous affect on his nerves. She could only hope that the effect was temporary, that it will be gone in an hour or so.

Picking up the broken, stained test-tube, she thought about the man. He was not a good test subject to begin with. He was edgy, odd at times, but it was understandable due to his medical condition. But now, it was obvious that the boy was troubled much more than she had originally thought.

A part of her knew that the boy was no true menace. Despite being a test subject, he was completely useless in every way. He would get killed before he harmed anyone else. Even this wasn't his complete fault. It was a mishap, a fluke, an angry outburst, followed by a confused, lonely man, fleeing the scene. Maybe this was simply an incident; an isolated incident.

This whole affair would be forgotten by tomorrow, only an eye patch as a reminder. The man would probably end up hospitalized, if not dead, by tomorrow morning. Their anti-depressant did not cause this. It was not supposed to cause it, not before the launch of the ground-breaking anti-cancerogen. Nobody would ever find out about this. She was sure of it.

But oh, how little she knew…


	4. The New Plague

**A/N: **Welcome back. The following chapters I wrote might be considered funny at times. Don't let this fool you, it does get darker. And, according to me, tragedy is just a joke you don't laugh at.

Enjoy.

* * *

It has been eight months since the first patient caught the mind-altering virus. The first one of over a quarter of a billion people infected. And already, the infected have been growing in numbers, spreading the virus to over a thousand people each day. It started with one man, one young man whose RNK fused with the Australium and created a strange beast. This concoction made him strong, ruthless and what could be defined as criminally insane. With no control over his own actions, he began causing havoc all over the city. His deeds were small, almost meaningless, in the range of vandalistic pranks. Fire hydrants torn from the ground, stop signs bent and cars turned over. Some witnesses say that the man had the appearance of a troll; slouching and dragging his skinny arms behind him like ragdolls. His teeth were sharp, and saliva dripped down them as the creature growled, demanding something in its own, bizarre language. His eyes were empty and yellowish, small red circles surrounding the pupils, as if they had been drenched in pure blood.

Another lunatic escaped from the asylum, some thought. The people ran to their houses as fast as humanly possible. Though they were faster than this creature, some were not observant enough to escape him. His bites would leave them with swollen contusions, about as dark as Satan's heart, if it had one. Some would bandage the wounds, which would later drip uncontrollably. The residue was a form of gummy and bloodied puss that traced a green trail over the synthetic bandages. The men went to various hospitals to have their wounds examined. The doctors did not have a clue what they were dealing with. No amount of alcohol could clean the wounds, and the poison couldn't be extracted; for it had already entered the victim's nervous system seconds upon insertion.

The vile beast that started the pandemic was brutally killed, and its body burned at the stake. Never had there been so many men, spitting at the man's burning corpse as it disappeared into ashes and rising smoke. They came from all around, some arriving from the far corners of the land to see the beast that started the New Plague. It was the talk of the town.

Meanwhile, the man's victims succumbed to odd changes. First came the nausea, then the flashes of bright light that would leave them confused, disoriented, and often angry. Quite soon, they would lose all control over their actions. On the same day the man was burned at the stake made out of hawthorn, thirty men and woman became infected with the New Plague. And on that same week, the first thousand became ill. The numbers only spread, the country was starting to crumble, and the man's ashes weren't even cold yet.

For hours upon end, news reporters would go on and on about the dangers of being exposed to the men infected with the New Plague. The time it took for the complete transformation varied from three minutes to three weeks. Already, people grew wary of their friends and neighbors. Everyone looked for a safe house, a place with endless supplies and a shelter from their impending doom. The reporters would cover only the most gruesome stories. And at the same time when fear and mayhem thrived, something else thrived as well.

As the global news networks tried to warn people, to terrorize them, to fill their souls and minds with incomprehensible fear, the entertainment industry tried to fill the people's minds with something quite different.

Lies.

Full on, unadulterated lies.

Emily Payne was a big help with that.

It would start early in the morning. On a certain entertainment network, Emily's bright face would pop up occasionally. She always looked radiant, her golden hair curled, her face completely made-up and dressed up to the nines, at sixes and sevens with the news networks.

_"Don't let those knuckleheads get the better of you, you hear? This day and age, all you need is a gun. All you need is a gun, a fine cocktail, and you're set for life," _she chirped at her viewers.

Somehow, some people found comfort in what she was saying. They believed her, taking her every word as a dogma that shouldn't be tampered with. Some silly people actually believed that everything was alright. Some honestly believed that, if they went to bed that night, nothing horrible would happen by the time they got out of bed. And if something did happen, Emily Payne would rescue them. Her words of facile wisdom provided shelter from the outside world. Every word that came out of her lovely lips would be taken quite literally.

_Just buy a gun_, she would say, _buy a gun and enjoy yourself. There is no need for gathering supplies. There is no danger. You are all safe, I assure you. We assure you._

The almighty _we_. Nobody knew quite what it meant. It could have been the royal we, or she could have possibly referred to the industry that put her on a treadmill, made her change from common singer to political marionette in seconds, because, "_she just had that trustworthy face_". Either way, she protected the public, somehow. They needed her. To some, she was their savior. She was the watchful protector, the hero the world deserved in its darkest hour. She was considered a very protective big sister.

It was such a pity that so many chose to ignore her, chose to be an only child. Such were the REDs.

They stared at the glaring television screen, Emily's soothing, cheery voice coming out slowly, carefully, saying her phrases in a manner slogans should be told, in order for the community to remember them. Pauling stood by the mercenaries' side, her eyes directed straight ahead, not looking at them, nor the television screen.

"_We find all this fighting very distasteful. All you need is a gun. A gun from the good fellows at 'In Arm's Way","_ she said. The company logo appeared underneath her round face. She smiled at the camera like a Cheshire cat. _"But you don't need these weapons to fight the carriers of this supposed New Plague, oh, no, no, no, my darlings!"_ She shook her head and cackled. _"You need to fight against the people spreading the rumors about it. Because that's all they are, darlings. Rumors."_ She leaned forward and smiled softly.

_"It's not the Infected that kill people. It's the rioters that kill each other. There are no Infected. Those are just conspiracies. Shameless rumors, all of them! You are safe, darlings."_

Her face disappeared off the screen and Miss Pauling cleared her throat as the image transformed itself into a small white dot.

"Of course, these are not rumors," she said, still not looking at the RED employers. "In fact, many people died due to the New Plague. The Infected are not to be taken lightly. And the New Plague is spreading far and wide, mostly across these parts."

"Good thing we're safe here, then," said the Sniper.

"That's where you're wrong," said Pauling. "Due to the increase in weapons production, this base will be shut down and be transformed into an arsenal."

A loud burst of protests filled the room, which Pauling silenced with a swift move of her right hand.

"However," she said, fixing her glasses; "We have reason to believe that this Infection is rather short-term."

"Short-term?!" Soldier snapped. "Patient Zero was eight months ago! How can this be short-term?!"

"Seriously, Paulers, dat's just stupid," Scout said, placing his tongue against his teeth. Pauling brought her eyebrows closer together.

"There are like ah billion Infected, lass! How da hell is this anythin' ta be joked around with?"

"Don't end a sentence with a preposition," Pauling said to the Demoman sternly. The Scot shook his head at her for not taking this seriously.

"Now, because of this, we will be sending you to another base. We have already sent your supplies there, including the ammunition you will need. You will need to travel to the destination yourselves, and-..."

This set off another howl of complaints. Most people died on the road. They would be safe as long as they had a place to stay in, but travelling often led to catastrophic consequences. Everybody knew this. Pauling managed to quiet them down, just barely.

"I know how you must feel, and I'm sorry that the organization cannot provide you with a proper vehicle."

The Sniper growled from underneath his brown panama. He already knew that he would have to transport his colleagues and himself in his van, and he was not entirely thrilled about the idea. Pauling continued;

"But we will be sending you to the most ideal place for dwelling in during the peak of the New Plague. Hopefully, the whole issue will blow over in a snap, and you will return here to perform your duties as hired mercenaries. Until then, the Team Fortress Organization will have to make place for other, more crucial operations."

The room seemed incredibly dark at that point. All that could be heard was the slow, melancholic pendulum swinging from the wall clock.

"Hopefully zhis von't last long, huh?" Medic said through an exhale that was supposed to come out as a laugh. Pauling nodded at the German, sorrow in her small, dark eyes. Everybody wanted to be somewhere else at this point. They already knew that the BLU team was sent off about one week ago. News of their disappearance travelled fast, faster than a speeding bullet. After that, Helen had doubts about sending the REDs anywhere else. However, staying here was out of the question.

"Excuse me, _mademoiselle_? If we were to partake in this deadly excursion, where would you be sending us?"

Miss Pauling flipped two pages of her clipboard back. And there it was, scribbled between the needed rations, between the supplied weapons, tucked in between the calculated chances of their safe return, stood a name. A name of the sanctuary that was to protect them during the riots, a sanctum of amity. She cleared her throat, as if the word itself had to be spoken perfectly clearly.

"Harvest."

She flipped the papers back to the front and picked up a pen.

"You are set to leave first thing in the morning, two days from now. I suggest you call your relatives. There is no way to communicate down there; all phone lines and forms of contact have been cut off. Even the Respawn will not be functional. So, I am not going to lie… this might just be your last chance to speak to them."

The Medic narrowed his eyes at the girl, twisting the small, golden wedding band on his finger. He couldn't imagine never speaking to his love again. He was the first to get up, the first to run towards the phone. The Scout was next, the Sniper followed. Quite soon, everybody walked out of the room, apart from Miss Pauling and the Spy. Even the mercenaries without a family, or at least without a family they spoke of, walked out of the area that seemed to smother them, remind them of the situation at hand. Pauling shouted something at them, saying that Harvest was only temporary. She didn't know this for sure and probably just said this to calm herself down. The Spy watched the glare on her cat-eyed glasses. The sun shined upon the glass, but she did not mind it. For all she cared, it wasn't there. It shouldn't have been there, it was not called for at all. Her gaze shifted to the masked mercenary, staring at the blank, pitch-black television screen. They were alone.

"Where will you go, Pauling?" He asked. The girl bit her bottom lip and looked away. She couldn't come with them, she had to stay and help out at the arsenal. Nobody knew about modern weaponry quite as well as she did. She had no choice but to stay. It was written all over her face.

"I see…" Spy reached into his jacket and took out his cigarette case. It opened with a click.

"Don't you have a family to call?"

The Spy said nothing.

"Alright then…"

Her footsteps were slow, she dragged her feet across the cold floor. When she left, the Spy firmly grasped the remote control in his hand. With a buzz, the TV switched on, and the beautiful face of Emily Payne was visible once again.

_"Don't be fooled by these silly little things. Nobody is going to die, darlings. The good fellows I'm advertising will make sure none of you do. I am going to keep you safe…"_

Her voice filled the room, feeling like a knife dipped in honey. The Spy smiled at the foolish girl, probably even fooling herself as she said this nonsense.

_"Don't you worry about a thing, darlings! Just sit back and enjoy the program. Everything's alright, relax! Just put all of your problems aside, darlings!"_

_The best overprotective big sister in the word.._.

Her face disappeared once again, making the assassin smile from ear-to-ear. Some ashes fell on his shoes. He kicked the gray powder off.

_Highly unlikely._

* * *

The Texan scurried through the hall, panting. His large, gloved hand found its place upon Miss Pauling's shoulder. She convulsed, slightly taken aback by the contact. Turning around, she found herself face-to-face with the Engineer. His knees were bent, his chest expanding widely as he tried to catch his breath.

"You…" he started, "You… you walk mighty fast, Miss P."

Miss Pauling adjusted her glasses and dropped down her hands. The clipboard she fell was now leaning on her hip. Dell could see the writing on it; it looked like a grocery list with strange quantities of foodstuff.

_320 kilograms of flour_

_400 kilograms of grain_

_Eight chickens_

_Salt (100-200)_

_Canned goods (check supply)_

_Gasoline_

"Can I help you, mister Conagher?" She asked calmly. Dell licked his dry lips and stood up straight.

"Miss Pauling, Ah've been in this service for years now… Ah never asked fer much… A bed, some bullets, a hot meal… that's it. Ah've always prided mahself on bein' low maintenance, ya know? Well… after this whole thing, things… just became more complicated. So Ah'm afraid I have… a request. And Ah'm afraid it ain't a small one."

Pauling tapped her manicured nails against the clipboard, nodding. Strangely, she knew what his next question would be. He needed something from her. Or rather, he needed something for himself.

"Miss P., Ah have a huge favor to ask of ya. If… if ya could find it in your heart to-…"

The young woman looked down at her feet.

"I see…"

She grabbed his hand and pushed it off her shoulder. With a turn, she proceeded to walk towards the Administrator's office. Dell gulped. What he was going to ask of Pauling wasn't going to be a small favor. Now he knew that this wasn't up to her at all. Until he could face the Administrator, he could only pray for compassion and the good Lord's sympathy.

God knows that the woman had none.


	5. The Phonecalls

_ 'Cause this is filleeeer, filler night  
And no one's gonna save you from the plot about to strike  
You know it's filleeeer, filler night  
You're reading my fanfic and it's a killer, filler toniiiiiight! _

* * *

Two men were standing side-by-side, each staring at the telephone located on one side of the room. The Sniper agreed on using the one on the left; the Scout the one on the right. They didn't speak, they didn't move. For a brief moment, it seemed as though one of them was about to break out of the room and run, without saying goodbye to his family one last time. The weight of the air around them pressed down their bodies until they could barely breathe. That strange gut feeling told them that nothing well is going to come out of this. They knew that the next phone call they made was nothing short of a warning, a warning for their families that their son isn't going to go home for the holidays next year. It was a warning to them; whatever kills their sons is going to come after the families soon afterwards. Never mind the weapons, foodstuff and money they had supplied to their folks, those will only prolong their life. Those material possessions will not be there with them to dig them a grave as their son's body lies cold in the dust.

But this was not the time to think about this. The television was on; they watched it while the Medic made his phone call to his wife. It took him almost a whole hour to say goodbye, and the poor man then ran to his office in order to check up on his doves, not wanting to speak with anybody else. He didn't even want to speak to Heavy, asking him about Natasha. During his talk, the other mercenaries watched the news. More on the blood, carnage and panic in the streets. It would send chills down the spine of the most ruthless of men. The ghastly, gory images of children running down the streets as the Infected chased them, grabbing one by one by the legs and swinging them against the brick walls. The children then stopped crying and continued to seep down the bricks, drop by drop of blood and stringy flesh.

These images were quite common among the REDs. But this time it was different. This time, there was no Respawn to bring the children back. They couldn't fight to defend themselves, not being that outnumbered. Their only option was to run and hide, but unlike the mercenaries, no hiding spot was good enough. The best they could do was to sit and shiver in their homes, much like sick, starving animals before they get sent to the slaughterhouse.

Much like their parents.

What seemed like a boulder pressed their shoulders down towards the ground, and they walked slowly, running the dialogues through their minds, almost certain that they were going to forget them the second they dialed the phone.

They picked up the handle almost in unison. Dialing the number, they could almost feel how uneasy the other man was, and how hard they were breathing.

Their mothers picked up the phones, and they answered in almost perfect synchronization.

The first few lines were simple, introductory, almost banal. They talked about the sanctuary, about the living arrangements, about the way of transport. Their mothers listened carefully, asking more questions. At one point, it could have been about five minutes later, they decided to tell them.

"Mum, Oi wos hopin' it wouldn't come to this, but…"

_"Look, Ma, I jus' wanna tell ya…"_

**"There is a chance of me not coming back."**

As expected, the mothers henpecked, asked a million questions that their sons couldn't answer, or didn't want to answer. They tried defending themselves.

"Mum, no, see, there is a difference between being pessimistic and realistic…"

_"Come on, Ma! They're like… freakin' zombies! They kill people! We're as good as gone, and-!"_

The chattering became softer. There was a brief moment of silence.

"No, mum, Oi just… Oi'm just worried, that's all."

_"N-n-no, I ain't scared."_

**"I just… I just wanted to say goodbye…"**

"Oi just…"

_"But Ma…"_

They sighed, unable to finish their sentences. Their mothers spoke to them one last time.

**"Okay, I will. Love you too,** Mum_/Ma."_

The click was sudden.

Sudden, and almost a hostile reminder that they said all they could say. They walked away from the contraptions, not looking anywhere. The two sons stood in the middle of the room, a foot away. The two mercenaries looked up at each other, their blue eyes locked.

"Do ya…" Scout sniffed, "Do ya think we'll see them again?"

The sharpshooter brought his arm around the boy, patting his back. He led him out of the room, looking up into the ceiling.

"God Oi hope so…"

In their daze, they couldn't even hear the buzzing noise as the Spy appeared in front of the telephones. They couldn't hear the sigh he gave before he picked up the phone to call somebody. And they couldn't hear his strangely raspy voice, as he finally reached the person he needed to speak to.

_"Bonjour, ma chère. J'espère que vous allez bien. Je ne suis pas…"_

* * *

"Everybody finished?" The Soldier asked as the three mercenaries exited the premises. They had all made their phone calls. Even the Pyro called somebody, possibly just for the sake of calling. The hot late-spring sun shone against the sand and gravel. The van parked in the sun must have been heated up quite well. The men almost dreaded getting into the vehicle tomorrow morning. A couple of crates were spread across the field, all marked "_SUPPLIES"_. More bullets and canned goods, that must've been it. The Heavy picked up a crowbar and opened every one of them. The Demoman frowned.

"Look, Rusko, wouldn't it be easia' tae jus' put the crates in tha van?"

Heavy looked at the drunken mercenary, ignoring Archimedes that perched on the edge of the wooden crate. The crowbar was still held tightly.

"Must check all supplies. Pauling will be making list." With that, he sent another top flying off, and making poor Archimedes flutter in his bird-like panic. The box was quite normal, canned soup, salt and spices. Sniper was beginning to have doubts about being able to fit everything into his van, let alone drive with all those items across an Infected ridden field.

While smoking his sixth cigarette that afternoon, the Spy noticed something odd. It was a box. A common crate, actually, containing something unknown to them. Those crates weren't supposed to make a sound, were they.

"Spook?" The marksman asked as the Spy suddenly dropped his cigar and stomped it out. "What're ya-?"

"Shhh!" The Spy alerted the Sniper to keep quiet as the other mercenaries unpacked more boxes. He slowly made his way up to the Russian and grabbed a crowbar, discarded under the man's legs. With the grace of a feline, he hurried up to the crate, which was now not only making odd sounds, but was also shaking. He struck the pointed end between the loose boards and applied some brutish force to open it. It took him a couple of tries, but he opened it. He dropped the crowbar in surprise.

Out stumbled a woman. She was clumped into a ball, almost as red in the face as the Spy was. Instinctively, he grabbed her shoulders and lifted her up from the dusty ground. At that point, all the mercenaries stared at the contents of the box, some more surprised than others. The Spy looked at the woman, panting and sweating. She opened her eyes and saw him, a silhouette against the bright sun, shining like a dream. She didn't mind the mask, she didn't even notice it. Her long hair hanged in lifeless, sweat-drenched strings while the mysterious man held her up. He spoke in his strong French brogue.

"And who, if I may ask, ahre you?"

The woman blinked, smiling at him.

"Ah'm…" she lifted up her hand to her forehead. "Ah'm charmed."

"Irene!" Dell cried gleefully. Irene then remembered who she was and stood up, running clumsily towards her husband and falling in his arms. He smiled.

"How's the trip?"

"You put me in a box, whaddya think?"

"Ah, yeah. Sorry, only boxes could get here through express mail. Is… Is Sarah here, too?"

At that point, a small child presented herself, jumping out of the box. The Medic shrieked upon seeing it.

"Right here, Daddy!" She waved to the men. The men half-heartedly waved back, simultaneously giving the Engineer one of their standard "_What in God's name do you think you're pulling here?" _looks. The Medic had a slightly more ferocious look, piercing the Engineers' soul. This look did not have a name, but one could interpret it as the _"If you do not get zhat child off my base, I vill cut you up into little pieces and sell your body on the black market, organ by organ!"_.

The two girls looked around the base. The younger girl hid her head back inside the box, only her big, bright eyes visible as she looked around the area.

"So _this_ is where Daddy works, huh?"


	6. The Beginning

**A/N: **_Thick As Thieves_ by Faux Promises continues to blow my mind. I swear, she writes the best Spy/ScoutMa ever. What were we talking about again?

Oh yes. Ahem... We now return to our feature presentation.

* * *

The two trespassers were sitting idly in the base, ocasionally looking out through the window. They could hear the man arguing over them, whether or not to let them stay. Their howls were getting louder, angrier. The Texan fought mostly with the Soldier, who listed every possible flaw in the Texan's plan to take his family to the sanctuary. The other mercenaries listened, agreeing with the Soldier but not wanting to get on the Engineer's bad side. As they quarreled, the two trespassers picked at the cuticles around their nails, a nervous habit. A part of them thought that they would be sent back to Texas. They would gladly return, if it would stop the fighting that went on.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?! Do you have a death wish, son?! Because I can make that wish of yours come true!"

The Soldier's fists tightened as he screamed at the Texan. The Engineer was as calm as he could possibly be. He spoke not defending himself, but defending his family.

"Now look, Ah already checked with the Admin, it took convincing, but-…"

"A permission doesn't make a difference! A permission doesn't give you more rations, more weapons, and it most definitely doesn't give you the right to bring those two… two… CIVILIANS!" The Soldier spat out the word like it was a plague-ridden morsel.

"Look, we have weapons, we have supplies to feed an army! Ah don't think-…"

"Oh course you don't think, that's the freakin' problem!" The Scout yelled quite loudly. "We've all seen those horror movies! The kid always gets everyone in trouble, the chick is completely useless… You- you ain't doin' us a favor, hardhat! You ain't doin' them a favor, eitha'! They're gonna die first, if anything!"

"They are not gonna die, Scout! Believe it or not, they won't be completely useless!"

The Bostonian folded his arms over his chest and shot the Texan with a judging glare. Even he knew that the Texan's wife and child couldn't be as competent as nine cold-blooded assassins. They would be deadweight, they would drag them down. He was going to be damned if he was forced to babysit them.

"What do you even think they're gonna do ovah there? There ain't no gardening club or hopscotch where we're goin'! Can they do anythin' to benefit the group? Can they aim, can they clean a gun, can they even pick it up?!"

The Engineer narrowed his eyes at the Bostonian, speaking rather hastily, some might even think nervously. The Texan was already running out of arguments.

"We'll think of something, Ah just want-!"

"Oh, wow!" The Sniper said through a short exhale. "_We'll think-a something. _While yer thinkin'-a something, half-a billion Infected will wont our arses on a stick! This ain't the toime fer thinkin'!"

A small vein started pulsing on the side of the Texan's neck. His face turned red, almost as red as the Soldier's, about as red as the team's color.

"Believe it or not, Stretch, Ah did put some thinking into this?"

"_Some?_"

The Spy flicked away another cigarette down on the dusty ground. He didn't even bother to put it out.

"You put them in a box and sent them here. I 'ardly think that ees rational thinking."

The dust lifted from the ground in small clouds as the Texan's boots struck the soil, moving towards the Frenchman. His goggles were foggy, but the man did not mind. He didn't need to see where he was going. He forcefully grabbed the Spy's suit, crinkling it in the palms of his hands. He brought his face closer to him. The Spy's balaclava could almost touch the Engineer's stubble. The Texan spoke slowly, trying to calm himself down, trying not to rib the Frenchman's head clear off his shoulders.

"Now listen here, turncoat. Ah've been here a looong, long time. Ah don't ask for much. Ah just want a… A family to return to. And Ah would appreciate it if they were alive when Ah came back to them."

The Spy's eyes widened in dismay. The Engineer continued to speak, a strange, ominous smile spreading across his face. The other mercenaries stood and listened, hearing every word transform into a low growl. Nobody said a thing. Nobody wanted to be in the situation the Spy was in.

"Now, listen, boy. You fellas might not be able to save yer loved-ones, but Ah sure as hell can. And if Ah have to pick between losing them and pissing you off, that's really a no-brainer."

He laughed conceitedly, not releasing the Spy from his iron grip for a second. In fact, after he was done with this show of determination, his fingers curled against the expensive fabric and lifted the Spy up by about one inch. One inch, however, was more than enough to completely bewilder the Spy. The masked mercenary turned his head away, slightly.

"Ah'm in charge of the girls, ya hear? Not you… not the Soldier… not the Scout. No. One. But. Me. Ya hear me?"

Unfortunately for the Spy, the question wasn't rhetorical. The Engineer frowned at the Spy and posed the question once more.

"Ah asked…" He spoke through his teeth; "Do… ya… hear…me?"

The Spy nodded once. The others began to nod reluctantly as the Texan scoped the area, slightly turning his head back. The Soldier curled up his hand into a fist but didn't say anything else. If the Texan wanted to bring the two girls with him, it was his funeral.

"Good…"

The Texan's gaze shifted back to the Spy. He was now becoming white in the face.

"Good…" The Texan smiled. "As long as we're clear."

Upon release, the Spy landed on his feet and stumbled back, barely keeping himself from falling. The Engineer dusted off his hands and walked straight past the other mercenaries. The men watched as the tinkerer entered the base to greet his two patient girls. The Sniper then turned to the Soldier.

"Well? Whaddya make of this?"

The Soldier lifted his aged helmet with his thumb to take a better look at the Engineer. He didn't turn back. The Soldier half wanted to shout at him, to curse him for bringing them in this situation.

"The man has grit," he said at last. "They're his problem, not ours."

"If zhe girl gets hurt," the Medic said, not hiding his dislike for children; "I am not wasting zhe Medi-gun on her."

The silence was almost deafening. They knew, deep down, that getting killed because of these interferences was far better than getting killed by the Engineer. The sun was beginning to set, streaks of bright red and yellow emerging from the wooden buildings. The group stood around the base before they went back inside, single file, bowing their heads down in humiliation.

* * *

The sun already peaked through the buildings at that hour. Ten people stood in line, straight and calm, albeit sleep deprived. Their heads bobbed down to their chests, only to be jerked back up as the Soldier walked past them, shooting daggers from his eyes. He spoke something of fraternity and reliability, about how some members might have none. His gaze shifted between Dell and his family. Irene frowned but didn't say a word, while Sarah didn't even understand what he was saying, and continued to stand in place at a halt.

The Sniper barely listened to the man, giving one of his famous rants. His van was parked behind him, he couldn't wait to get out of this base. He didn't care about having to drive ten other people with him and a plethora of supplies. He didn't even worry about the possibility of getting killed on the way. He just wanted to move. Trying to pass the time, passing slower and slower with each of Soldier's semi-hidden insults, he leaned over to the Spy, looking at the burly American, a cigarette tucked in between his lips.

"Oi get how Sol could get along with Irene and the kid goin' wif us… But how'd Dell manage to talk the Admin into it."

"She wasn't on board with eet at first," the Spy said, barely looking at the marksman. "Pauling told me. At first she 'ad doubts about sending zhe laborer away, after 'earing zhat. She changed her mind after she heard that the women would not be needing any supplies."

"So… she really didn't care, did she?"

Spy shrugged.

"I wouldn't."

The Soldier then started shoving weapons into the men's arms. Skipping Irene and Sarah, he walked up to the Spy and presented him with his standard revolver, tossing it in his hands like a filthy rag.

"Now remember, ladies!" He started, "This is no ordinary fight. For start, its length is indefinite. There is no Respawn. There is no mercy."

The Medic firmly grasped his Medi-gun along with his Amputator. He shook his head at the smiling Heavy. He found this overly-dramatic weapons presentation quite unnecessary. They already had all of their weapons stashed at Harvest. The trinkets they were given now would not keep them from getting killed on the road.

"This is survival of the fittest!" The Soldier said, clenching his fist and raising it up to his face. "Our strength this time is not in numbers. Our strength is in brains!"

"Translation: we're screwed," Scout said to the giggling Pyro. The Soldier did not pay attention to this, or at least tried not to.

"Now I want you on that van in exactly two minutes, or the Infected won't be the only unholy menaces you'll have to deal with!"

Quick, hurried footsteps were heard as Miss Pauling ran out of the base and onto the field, still clutching the clipboard against her chest. She waved to them, signaling them to wait. As they waited for her to run to them, the Sniper noticed the Spy's measly weapon.

"You, uh… you sure you'll be able to take on a horde of Infected wif that toiny lil' thing?"

The Spy admired the revolver briefly.

"_De détails inutiles et le théâtre. _Why bother with such meaningless things? It's not the size of the weapon; it's how you use it."

"Really, Spook?" The Sniper's left eyebrow shot up in his hairline. He let out a short, croaked laugh.

"Don't be vulgar, Mundy."

"Oi'm jus' sayin', you can't say somethin' loike that and expect me to keep on a straight face."

"If anything, people with the larger weapons are the ones who compensate for something. It's not the other way around."

The Sniper tilted his head to the side, looking at the Spy over the brim of his glasses.

"Wot're you imployin'?"

The Spy smirked while looking at the Sniper's AWPer Hand. The marksman was commenting something about the Spy being an immature prat until he saw Miss Pauling, standing right in front of him.

"G'day," he said sheepishly.

"I understand the preparations have went well." She looked at the others, ready to leave. The Scout ran up to her, pushing the Soldier aside. The boy placed his hand upon Miss Pauling's shoulder, ignoring the angered cries of the patriot.

"So, um, Paulers, I figured… since we're as good as gone, couldja… couldja send me off with a kiss?"

Grabbing his face by the cheeks, Pauling pushed away the Scout and moved towards the Soldier. She brought her fingers together and raised them just up to her head in a proud salute. The Soldier mimicked the action flawlessly.

"Godspeed, gentlemen."

The Soldier nodded and ordered the men to march to the van, giving them a beat which they didn't care about. They all walked at their own pace, the semi-sleeping Scout dragging his feet across the ground and being the slowest of the group. He looked up into the light-blue sky and sighed in annoyance.

"Scout, wait," said a bored voice through a sigh.

He turned around to see Miss Pauling, holding him by his shoulders. Her fingers were digging in his flesh as she sighed and pulled herself closer to him. His jaw dropped in surprise. What followed was a kiss, more platonic than anything. It lasted for about two seconds, and Pauling wasn't enthusiastic about it, but it still made the Bostonian broaden his eyes and become stiff in the body.

He opened his mouth to say something. A weird, babbling sound came out, resembling insane laughter.

"Mwa-hah… mweh-heh-he…"

"Every dying man gets a last request," she said with a smile. The Bostonian jerked up.

"What? No tongue?"

The Demoman then began honking at the Scout, much to the anger of a certain Australian, sitting at the wheel.

"Oi! If yer dune in there, mind if ya pop in?" He yelled drunkenly. The Scout raised up his shoulders in embarrassment. With a wave, he rushed towards the van.

Pauling stood and watched with a smile on her face and sorrow in her eyes.

* * *

"How wos she, mate?" Asked the Sniper, pulling at the creases of his fingerless gloves. The Scout shrugged.

"Kisses like ya Ma."

The Sniper ignored this remark and turned to the passengers.

"All of ya set to go? Oi ain't makin' any unnecessary stops."

"We-we're fine," Irene said shyly, from the small ledge she was sitting on. The marksman looked at her briefly, through his aviator glasses. There was something about his face that puzzled her. That long, sullen expression, the dark stubble and the oddly high cheek-bones seemed all too familiar. She had seen this man before. No, no, she couldn't have! But there was a feeling of déjà vu when he spoke to her, an odd, unsettling familiarity when he talked in his Australian burr. And the familiarity didn't end there; the look of pure evil he shot at her, sending chills down her spine, only made her think that she knew this man from somewhere. And something told her that seeing his face for the first time couldn't have been pleasant.

The marksman sniffed once. He then turned to her husband.

"Ya know, if the Sheilas are _your_ responsibility, you technically have to droive them yerself."

Dell blinked at him.

"Well, _technically, _you'd have to be left with all four of your limbs after the trip is over."

Sarah giggled.

And soon, they rode off, driving away from the sunrise.


	7. The First Horde

**A/N: **'Ello, loves! Off to the Britons for half-a fortnight so I decoided ta pop this one up for ya, loves. I hope you'll foind it pleasant. Now I have to go shake hands with the Queen and eat biscuits and crumpets and scrumpets and kibbles and bits. Cheerio! 'Ello, guvnah!

* * *

It was about high noon when the group exited Albuquerque. Surprisingly, there weren't many Infected in the capital. However, the brainless monsters roamed the more secluded parts of New Mexico. People could always expect hordes to pop up in small, under-populated towns. The capital cities were often deserted, if not completely destroyed.

The van steered slowly down a gravely road, covered in darkened blood and motor oil. Not a living soul was outside, not a conscious being in a five-mile radius. Or so they thought.

The hot air wisped and twisted up in the air, the entire devastated town seemed to be melting under the effects of the grueling, New Mexico heat. Even the van had turned into a searing block of metal, to the discomfort of the stoic passengers. Cracking open the window didn't help much, the heat was still unbearable. And the smell coming from the streets was indescribable. It resembled something disgustingly sweet, like burning rubber and rotting flesh. Sweat was now pouring down everyone's faces, but they did not complain, they found it difficult to speak. They passed by a burning trashcan, a familiar sight. Many bums that used to heat themselves in the oddly cold evenings fled as soon as they heard about the outbreak. Nobody even put out the fires.

The Scout drank some luke-warm water from his water bottle, cursing the heat. The Pyro didn't seem to mind it. It just sat on the carpeted ground, tucked in between the wall of the van and the Scout. The Bostonian offered it some water but it politely declined. The speedster chuckled, weakly.

"Hey, Py?"

The Pyro looked at the Bostonian.

"'Member when I said dat I wanted something like this? With zombies and stuff?"

The firebug remained quiet, so the Scout simply shook his head.

"It's okay if you don't. It's been a really long tahm ago. I jus' wanted to say dat…" The Scout lifted the almost drained-out water bottle just above his forehead. He desperately wanted more water to materialize itself inside the plastic.

"I take it back. Big time."

Though the boy couldn't see it because of the Pyro's optical mask, he could feel like his friend was smiling at the remark. They jolted a bit when the van ran over an unsmooth surface of the road. The Soldier adjusted his helmet back on his head and slowly rose up from the Sniper's makeshift bed.

"Eyes on the road, maggot!"

The Sniper growled but didn't bother to turn his head back.

The two extra passengers didn't seem to mind the talking. Irene was looking through the window, Dell's hand in hers. She occasionally averted her eyes to look at the mostly quiet mercenaries. Sweat drenched her blouse and ran down her back, but she didn't say a word. The smell of motor oil and the heat were overwhelming. Her head ticked from side-to-side in slight nausea. Dell noticed this and closed the window behind her. Opening it in the first place didn't make much of a difference, so this action wasn't greeted with protest.

Meanwhile, Sarah barely minded the atmosphere around her. She held a book in her hands, one of the books she brought for the trip. At first she read chapter by chapter, occasionally glancing away from the book to relax her eyes and inspect the faces of the men she travelled with. By now, her nose was practically buried in the paper, nothing disturbed her. Turning over the pages as swiftly as a coursing river, and her breathing reduced to a minimum, she was fully taken-in by the book. Nobody could even speak to her now, as she travelled through time, straight in 1984. Irene glanced at the novel from time to time, unsure if a ten-year-old should be reading such literature. She didn't say anything; she knew that Sarah would turn violent if somebody broke her from this state of complete concentration.

They drove slowly across the town, unaware of the ghastly beings, poking their heads out through the buildings. They walked slowly, looking at the van. They knew that it did not belong there. More of these beings gathered, each clutching the walls of the abandoned buildings, staring at the vehicle, concealed in darkness. Fire flamed in their eyes as they finally became aware that this iron creature did not transport their own kind. And the creatures knew that it was their sworn duty to convert the normals.

With a grunt and a hiss, the largest Infected alerted the others that it was time to swarm. They poked out of the darkness and in to the scorching sun, wincing when the light ran into their eyes like a burning arrow. The creatures continued to drag their feet across the gravely road. Moaning and limping, a small crowd gathered around the van.

They came near the van. They first came from the right, soon came others from the left. The Pyro saw the creatures, limping towards the van and gazing upon it in admiration and confusion. The firebug placed its hand on the Scout's shoulder and shook him. The Bostonian stared out of the window, still half asleep. He blinked out the sleep out of his eyes and stood up.

"Uh…guys?" He turned to the group. "We, uh… we got a problem."

The van slowed down until it came to a full halt. The Infected stared at the people inside, slurring and growling as saliva poured out of their mouths in cottony streaks. The Sniper tightened his grip around the steering wheel.

"Now what?" Asked the Demoman.

"Oi… Oi don't know." The Infected were still looking at the marksman inside the strange, metal vehicle. They didn't move an inch towards them.

"Oi really, really don't know."

Hearing about the Infected attacking people in the cities was one thing. Actually facing these abominations was another thing entirely. They were unsure of what to do. If they rushed, they might attack. If they moved, they might attack. If they stood still, they might attack. The creatures didn't need much to attack them, and they sure were taking their precious time. The Heavy narrowed his eyes at them, clutching his Sasha, just in case. Every mercenary stopped breathing, too frightened to move. Both parties waited patiently for the other to make the next move. A satisfaction that neither would give. Through that whole waiting game, Sarah continued to read her book.

**THUMP!**

The van was being pushed on its left side by one incredibly brave or incredibly stupid Infected. The vehicle leaned slightly and recoiled back to the centre. The group let was barely shaken by this, apart from Sarah. Her book dropped by her side and closed itself up. Furious, Sarah looked at the Infected, pushing the van in a larger group. Soon, the Infected on the left nudged the van as well.

"Damn!" Sarah exclaimed before anybody else. "Why the hell are we just standing here?!"

This was a good question.

The Spy sitting in the front opened the window slightly, to the Sniper's protest. In a split second a hand appeared; a gruesome, greenish hand that looked as if it were about to fall off and land on the Spy's lap. The Frenchman pulled out his revolver and shot the first Infected in the head. A few drops of blood scattered across the faces of the Infected behind the group's first victim. The creatures stepped back slightly as the first body dropped dead. Shaken but stirred, more and more Infected began pushing themselves against the open window. These were easy targets.

"Oi! You plannin' on finishin' them off through a window? There's about a hundred of them!" The marksman said, annoyed.

"Any better ideas?" The Spy responded. Another gunshot. Another body fell. The sharpshooter groaned and rolled down his window.

"If something happens to me van, yer payin' fer it!"

One more determined Infected took upon smashing the van's exterior by slamming his fists against it. At that point, the mercenaries who could stick their weapons out of a window began killing off the menaces, one at a time. Though the numbers were decreasing, the Infected still blocked the path, and it was only a matter of time until their immediate ammo supply ran out. The Spy reloaded his revolver for a second time, knowing that they weren't going anywhere.

Sarah looked at the bodies that fell dead. The strange thing was, these creatures used to be people. There laid businessmen, still dressed in their coats and ties, there growled women in hospital gowns, their swollen stomachs showing. These people used to have a consciousness, they used to care. Now they were reduced to an infected monster. The only thing a man could possibly do to help an Infected was to kill him. Preferably as brutally as possible.

"You missed one, dad!" She shouted at the Engineer. The barrel of his heated shotgun was set to a different angle, and down came a woman, so anxious to destroy the van she began clawing the faces of the other Infected who stood in her way. A line of crimson blood fell down her cheek. Dell nodded at his daughter.

"Scout!" The Spy called out to the Bostonian, sitting in the back; "I require assistance!"

The boy ran to the masked assassin, holding his scattergun. Without saying a word, the Spy pushed the man on his seat as he moved towards the crowded centre of the van.

"What're… Whatcha doin'?"

"Shut up and shoot! I will be back in a minute."

A few shards of glass scattered across the floor when an Infected punched through a half-open window. Irene brought Sarah closer to her, trying to protect her.

"Piss!" Sniper cursed just before the Pyro set the Infected's hand ablaze. The creature pulled it out of the van in horror, screeching in a tone similar to a boiling kettle. He pushed himself back into the crowd of Infected, waving his arm as he tried to put it out. The heat was becoming unbearable, and the creature's pain was growing stronger with each fiber of tissue becoming engulfed. A few more Infected were set on fire. They ran, pushed the van in confusion. The tried to climb it, to conquer it. Each and every one fell down, lifeless. Some were even lying dead atop the van. A strange, invisible figure kicked them off, one by one.

In the fire that spread around the Infected on the left side, nobody even noticed the Spy sneaking out of the sunroof, cloaking and running across, across the Infected's slippery heads and into the back. And soon enough, more bodies dropped dead, a knife stuck in their backs.

But at one moment, that one horrible moment, an Infected turned and realized that the creature pulling out the knife out of a fellow Infected's back was not one of them. A snarl later, the Infected turned around, one by one.

"Where are they going?" Irene asked as the Scout shot the last creature that bothered to attack the van. The Engineer could see the man running away from those ghouls. He was heading towards and abandoned construction site, followed by a horde of despicable atrocities. He exhaled sharply.

"Damn it, Spook!"

He grasped stepped on a small ledge formed by a couple of suitcases. A shotgun in hand, he opened the sunroof flap.

"If Ah'm not back in five, go on without me."

"Dell!" Irene cried, just before her husband exited the van. There were some things a wife didn't want to hear about her husband. His death was one of those things. She looked at him, jumping off the van and running far into the abandoned buildings, towards the mountains of refined steel and dark, metal sheds. More Infected were coming towards them. This time the group anticipated them, loading their weapons. The Heavy and the Medic now stepped out to give them a warm, bullet-themed welcome they usually only gave to the BLUs. Irene squinted at the two battles about to commence. One was between seven fully-equipped, bloodthirsty mercenaries and a dozen creatures that barely walked. The other was between sixty of those things, her husband and a French guy in a suit.

One thing was perfectly clear as she climbed up the suitcases herself.

Her husband was an idiot.

* * *

His footsteps rung ominously through the dark, surprisingly cold metal box he walked through. His gun was hot, incredibly so. He held the barrel in his gloved hand as he listened, he watched his surroundings. He walked over the dead bodies of trampled construction workers, reaching their hands out towards the exit. Their helmets laid beside them, discarded. They must have been making their way towards the exit when the other workers treaded on them. There was still hope in their lifeless, gray eyes.

Dell exhaled, half-expecting a wisp of fog to come out of his mouth in this cold case. Every step he heard in the distance made him flinch and grab his weapon. He would stand ground before moving forward again. His eyes shifted from one side to another. He pointed his gun at every shadow that moved. There weren't many of them, it was too dark. He wanted to call out to the Spy, to see if he was too late. But every small sound he emitted scattered across this case, trapping the sound and playing it loudly, repeatedly. Every drop of sweat that slid down the tinkerer's temple was audible, or at least he thought so.

Suddenly, a footstep. It rung around the small metal base, as clear as a bell. With narrowed eyes, the tinkerer stepped forward. This time, the footsteps were even clearer. They moved surprisingly fast, one by one. Whoever was inside was running.

Possibly running after him.

Every fiber in his body stiffened, his legs began to move. He tried commanding himself to halt, but instead he ran like the wind. His finger was wrapped around the trigger while he ran, fully aware of the sound. But the footsteps were louder, they were coming for him.

Soon he came across it; a dead end. His heart was beating wildly; the blood pulsated inside his ears. Whoever chased him was still coming closer. The Texan closed his eyes, feeling his throat close up. His muscles tightened as he exhaled, mostly to calm himself down. As he turned, he saw the creature.

The most disgusting, horrendous thing he had ever seen in his life. This Infected slouched before him, gelatinous slime pouring down his mouth, over his torn shirt exposing his blackened chest. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils rounded with small, yellow rings. His hair was pulled out in certain places, only a handful of copper tufts remained. The creature raised his hand up, showing the blood under his bitten nails and large, red sores across his palms. They reminded Dell of the Lord's stigmata. Such an unholy beast couldn't be wielding a holy sign. In pure rage, more than in fright, Dell pointed the shotgun at him.

And then, the Infected did something sickening and awful indeed.

It spoke.

In a French accent, no less.

"Wait!"

The sound echoed through the area, and the creature stood up straight, covering his gray lips with his bruised and infected palm. Dell still held the shotgun near the creature's face, but now seemed slightly calmer, albeit a bit confused.

"Spook?" He slightly moved backwards. "Why… why are ya dressed like that?"

The Spy held up his other hand up, that clutched his weapon. The Your Eternal Reward. The assassin suddenly felt disgusted by his current appearance, frowning at his blackened nails.

"I came to realize zhat zhe Infected do not attack their own kind. Good thing I had zhis little marvel."

The Engineer dropped his weapon to the side of his body.

"Ah'm just glad you weren't gonna rip me apart. Well, now that yer here, we might start making our way back."

The Texan had already passed the Frenchman when he heard him making odd noises, the kind a person would usually make when he wanted to point something out to a person they were intimidated by.

"What now, Spook?" Asked the Engineer.

"Zhere ees a… teensy… weensy problem… You see, I could go out scot-free, but…"

"They would not let me go out there alive." The Engineer sighed. "How many of them are still alive out there?"

"About fifty. I managed to drag zhem to zhe other side of zhe construction site while I was a decoy. As soon as I managed to take zhe form of one of zhem, I came here."

The Texan's lip pulled itself to the side in discontent.

"Fifty, eh?"

At that point, a lone Infected came running through the base. He growled at the two and stretched out his hands to end the normals' pathetic lives. The two mercenaries looked at the monstrosity. The Spy switched his blade for a revolver and the Engineer pressed down his trigger.

The Infected stopped in place and rolled his eyes when the bullet struck his neck.

But it wasn't the bullet that killed him. It was probably the sharp, rotating blade that buzzed through his body. The blade was pulled out swiftly, like a knife through a stick of butter. The two men stared at the Infected's organs, destroyed, mutilated. The atrocity hit the ground, and the person that stood behind him was a woman, wielding a chainsaw. Her face and blouse were covered with scarlet blood. She frowned at the two men when she turned on the chainsaw again, to get the bits of flesh and organs off the rotating blades.

"…Irene?"

The blonde woman huffed at the two, mumbling something in her chest.

"Six down… forty to go…"

"Irene…" Dell began asking, not even getting as far as posing two words in each of his questions. "How did…? What did…? How…? Why?"

"Well somebody had to stop you guys from getting killed out there!" She said loudly, not caring about the volume of her voice.

"Where did you get zhat chainsaw?" Asked the Spy, pointing at it. "And how do you handle eet so well?"

"This old thing? This is a construction site, hun, there's a pile of these! 'Being a country girl, Ah know mah way 'round a buzzer. Back in Texas, we use these things to cut umbilical cords! Ah jus' went to see how ya'll doin' when Ah saw it. And then Ah saw those weird… zombie things. And then Ah got an idea." She smiled. "An awful idea. Ah got a wonderful, awful idea."

With a hand gesture, Dell instructed the two to follow him out. Stepping over the bodies, Irene worried about getting the bloodstains off her new weapon. They stepped into the burning sun, to be greeted by a gang of Infected, standing by the balustrades. Irene proudly started her chainsaw and looked around the site. The Infected growled expectedly, slowly making their way towards the three; a man pointing a shotgun at them, their fellow Infected who appeared to have turned on them, and a woman in pearls, carrying a chainsaw and a maniacal grin. Even creatures as mindless as the Infected could tell that this was a clean victory.

None of them expected a rocket that shot out into the small group of forty, along with three grenades.

They flew into the heavy, metal barriers, knocking them over, one by one. They fell like the dominos, each large slab of metal and wood crushing a few of the monstrosities. The Demoman and the Soldier ran out, firing the remainders of their weapons at the surviving enemies. Dell moved his head away as the bits and pieces flew across the field, an occasional limb smacking the Spy in the head. Quite soon, there was nothing. Nothing could be heard, but the whooshing of the southern wind.

The Soldier and the obviously drunk Demoman rejoiced, but the three were not as thrilled about this underwhelming victory.

"That's it?" Asked Irene, switching off her new chainsaw. "Ah was just getting good at this!"

"We could've handled it on our own, fellas," said the Engineer.

"Nonsense, private!" The Soldier exclaimed. "You know the rules; all for one and each man for himself!"

The patriot soon raised his helmet up over his eyes. He looked at the creature behind Dell and Irene. It was one of them, or so he seemed.

"What?" The Spy asked when he grew tired of the Soldier staring at him.

"OH MY GOD, THEY LEARNED TO TALK!"

The patriot dropped his rocket-launcher on the dusty ground, grabbed his shotgun and shot the poor disguised Spy in the chest. The Frenchman was flattened against the wall, coughing up blood. Dell smacked his head.

"Irene… please get the Medic."

* * *

The red healing rays of the Medi-gun healed the Spy relatively quickly. Taking a few deep inhales, the Spy noticed that his lungs were functional once again. Still feeling the throbbing pain, he turned to the Soldier.

"Uh, yeah… sorry about that, private. No hard feelings?"

The Spy growled with revulsion.

"_Allez baiser votre casque_."

Meanwhile, the Sniper and the Heavy were doing their own little project, a scarecrow for all the other Infected that might disturb them on their journey. Irene's new weapon was very helpful in this case. Using the Engineer's nail gun, they stuck one Infected corpse on two pieces of wood. They wrapped two pieces of rope across the corpse's arms and slowly raised it until it stood erect on the top of the van.

"There," said the Sniper, dusting off his blistered hands. "Now if that ain't a beaut of a scarecrow, Oi don't know wot is."

Sarah's eyes narrowed at the corpse, stretching its arms out. Its head was lowered down to its chest, the mouth opened slightly as the blood streamed down its chin. The image reminded her of something.

"It's kinda like… Jesus, ain't it?"

Irene muttered something to her daughter about sacrilege and dragged her back in the van. The bits of fabric from the corpse's clothes flew in the mid-autumn wind. A nail in each of his palms, a nail in his feet. It really did resemble the Lord. All it needed was a thorny crown. Hopefully, its putrid smell would be a warning to the other Infected. The group retreated back to the van.

The Sniper was the first one to arrive and sit in the driver's seat. Sarah walked around the van, trying to stretch her legs.

"Well look at that, lil' Sheila. Even yer mum's got a weapon now." He looked at Irene, trying to pick away the stiffened blood with her fingernail. "Now yer the only one useless."

Sarah sat down on the floor, taking her book in her small hands.

"You're pretty useless yourself."

The marksman's eyebrows shot far into is hairline, and he turned back facing the road, muttering something under his breath about badly raised children. His voice resembled the incoherent muttering of Satan herself. He didn't say a word to the mercenaries entering the van, and continued to talk to himself.

"You're a freak," Sarah said as she opened the book, the start of part two, where Winston sees Julia again.

"Yer a freak," he said, feeling awfully proud about himself for telling off a ten-year-old girl. Sarah smiled at him.

"I like you."

* * *

**A/N: **But what's this? A connection between an adult and the youngest member of the survival group? Great. Like that's never been done before. -_-


	8. The Market

The early morning sun shone through the tattered curtains, leaving small, almost white circles on the cracked floor. One of those circles hit the Engineer right in the eye. He squinted, half trying to get the sun out of his eye and half trying to get himself to wake up. He sat up, blotches of purple still floating in front of him. His back ached, after a whole night of sleeping on the floor of this abandoned shack they found. His wife and daughter were sleeping on the couch, a mess of hair and limbs. Some of the mercenaries were upstairs, presumably comatose. The Soldier and the Demoman were also asleep on the floor. Dell must've been the first to wake up.

With a grunt, he went up to the curtains and moved them apart with his thumb and index finger, just enough to see Sniper's van. The clothes of the Infected nailed to the unholy crucifix were still flailing in the wind. He could see the Sniper, rubbing his eyes after another almost sleepless night. For a second, he looked towards the house the rest of the team dwelled in for the night. It was an old, run-down house in the country, without as much as a basic front yard. Ivy surrounded it, the walls, the roof and most of the windows upstairs. His eyes met with Dell's, and at that moment, the marksman honked the horn of his van. Almost instantaneously, everyone was on their feet.

The horn first cut through the air like a knife, and the mercenaries still asleep began cursing, though in the presence of a lady and a young girl.

"_Je baise méprise vous_…" The Spy snarled, hoping that the Sniper might hear him as he appeared at the top of the stairs, hastily making his way towards the exit. On his way down he nodded to Irene, not paying any attention to the other irritable mercenaries. Irene didn't return the gesture, and headed towards the kitchen instead. The Soldier stretched his arms up and called the Heavy and the Medic downstairs.

"Come on, maggots, move! We've got a lot of travelling to catch up to!"

The Heavy remained quiet, as usual. The Medic, however, ran downstairs muttering a strange mix of both English and German. The Soldier couldn't understand what every word meant, but he knew that they were insults. The Scot held his pulsating head between his hands, still recovering from a minor hangover combined with sleep deprivation.

Sarah was the only one who didn't mind getting up early. She jumped from the couch, a wide smile on her face. She was probably out of the house in three steps. The others watched her leave.

"Well," Dell clapped his hands together and grunted. "Time to go, fellas."

The group went through the kitchen. The sight they witnessed didn't seem odd. It was a woman, slouching over her kitchen table, a bullet hole in her head. When the group saw her yesterday, the first thing they checked for was another bullet. Sadly, she had used up the last one she had to end her miserable life. Her handgun was a small .9 mm, completely useless. When they also found out that the woman had no coffee, food supplies or clothes, the men lost interest in her entirely. And now they exited her once Infected-ridden house, in a single file.

"How's yer headache, Mrs. Miggins?" The Demoman asked, gesturing at the hole in her head. Heavy laughed at the comment, but nobody else joined him.

The smell of the corpse fastened at the top of the van spread quickly as they exited the house. They groaned, covering their noses.

"Ah swear, that thing gets worse to look at every time Ah look at it!" His noise rose with disgust. The Infected's flesh was now beginning to fall off and turn blue. Its stomach was swollen, almost as if it was going to burst at any moment. The flies flying around it weren't aesthetically pleasing either.

"As long as it keeps zhe Infected at bay…" The Spy finally opened his eyes at the monstrosity. "Now, come on. Time is critical."

The group scurried inside the van. Mundy rubbed his eyes, slouched over the steering wheel. Sarah was reading her book. All in all, a normal start of the day. They drove off, out of the abandoned town, one of many they came across.

* * *

"_So, anyway, I… wait, guys! This is a good one right here!"_

Emily Payne's voice was heard from the small television screen in the small supermarket in the middle of nowhere. The team visited it, thinking that this might be a great chance to stock up on food supplies and other necessities they might have overlooked. The television was crooked, the image blurry, but Emily's unmistakable voice still managed to echo through the aisles. Engineer held his shotgun close to his body, listening around for any Infected that might be prowling about.

"_So, I'm at this Halloween party, right? And I'm wearing my Cher costume. Ya know, long black hair, white foundation, long, sequin dress… I think John Lennon went with me as Sonny… Anyway…"_

Dell was becoming more and more irritated by the girl's voice. He wanted to shoot the screen, to shut her up once and for all. He tightened his gloved fingers around the barrel. If he shot now, he would give away his position. If he didn't he wouldn't be able to hear the Infected that might be around. He tried to stay calm, even with Emily's chattering.

"_So, I come inside, and there I see her: curly blonde hair, blue eyes, the shortest green dress you've ever seen. And all decorated with the tackiest jewelry I have ever seen! For a second, I thought I was looking at a mirror. Then I remember that I can't be looking at the mirror, because I didn't look like that at the moment, and I most certainly wasn't as tall."_

Dell wanted to tell the girl to shut up. He wanted to scream, but couldn't. He couldn't say anything in the deserted, almost completely empty space. The creatures were around him, he knew it. He just had to move in order for them to attack. His nostrils widened when he heard a crack, but it wasn't from the television set. It was coming from the other end of the room. And there it was; an Infected. His cashier's attire was stained and ripped, his face gray and his eyes red as bowls of blood.

"_So then I finally got it!" _Emily spoke of the event through a laugh. _"I was dressed as Cher and Cher was dressed as me!"_

With a growl, the creature attacked, knocking over the cans of tinned lamb. One of them rolled up to Dell's foot. With a jerk he shot the Infected in shoulder. He screamed but continued to run. Another gunshot, this one struck the creature in the cheek, blowing it off. The Engineer could see the redness of the creature's tongue. It moved inside the mouth while it shrieked, grabbing Dell by the shirt and knocking him over.

The Texan smiled and kicked the Infected off him. It flew in the air and into a few wooden shelves. The plastic bottles of oil all came crashing down on him. The horrible abomination felt no pain. Not until Dell grabbed him by the neck, striking the Infected's head against an unbroken shelf. One strike, two strikes, three… The Infected laid motionless, stretched out on the cold, grocery store floor. Dell picked him up by the throat, spitting on his face.

This was the only Infected that walked around here. To make sure he was dead, he tossed him at the crooked television set.

"_Cher always did say botched Botox would kill her before any of the Infected did," _Emily joked. _"Sadly, with all this panic with the Infected and whatnot, she really did have to use the cheap stuff she flew in from Mexico…"_

The Infected struck the television set and broke it, just as Emily was crossing her heart with a glimpse of sorrow in her eyes.

"_God bless her soul."_

Pleased with the silence, Dell looked around the trashed market. The produce section was meager, most of the crops were beginning to turn into a mushy liquid and fungi. There was no flour, no yeast and no grain. The only things left were common trinkets, chocolates, chips and other foodstuff men weren't keen on taking. They weren't crucial.

Still, Dell invited the men in, hoping that they might find something inside.

The first one to walk in was the Spy, followed closely by the Sniper. He ran towards a small cardboard container. It was badly sealed with a brown strip of tape. The work that caught the Spy's eye was a barely readable _Tobacco_. The Frenchman looked around, to see if he was the first one to find this jewel. Still, he needed to see the box's contents. He had been fooled many times by these labels. Something odd happened at that moment. He clasped his hands together.

_God, I know I might be asking for much, but if this box contains real cigarettes, I will be forever in your service, and I will praise Thy name daily._

He took a deep breath, and to his joy, he found them. Beautiful, thin, white cigarettes. There must have been a hundred of them, and they were his for the taking. He almost flailed as he smelt the tangy aroma. He had never witnessed such beauty. But soon, the corners of his mouth turned downwards, as he took upon examining one cigarette.

_What? No filter?_

He began stuffing the cheap cigarettes into his coat, mumbling something under his breath. One fistful of cigarettes later, tobacco had begun to seep over his suit. He did not mind this as much as he usually would. He stuffed his suit more and more, feeling awfully a lot like a Christmas turkey. If this was the best he could have, he mused, he might as well take it all.

_Well, well, well… look who showed up again._

Spy flinched, thinking that this statement was directed at him. He looked around the semi-empty shelves and his teammates examining them. He was out of their sight, holding onto the box like a spoilt child held onto one of his toys after hearing that it might be taken away from him. His eyes shifted. The voice was oddly familiar, but unlike any other voice he heard before. It was like a mirage.

_Give it a rest already! He isn't showing up!_

Slowly, he turned his head towards the produce section.

_Something was off. The vegetables now displayed seemed almost edible, though there weren't many of them. They were spread across wooden stalls, and not large plastic containers. The Spy moved back, but as soon as he did, he bumped into somebody. It was an ordinary passer-by. She huffed and moved past him. He didn't know what was happening. A minute ago, he was with his teammates. Now he was at a market, in the middle of a bustling and hustling crowd, fighting like animals for any last decent scrap of food. He walked around the area, taking in the sights and the smells of real food. The noise was overwhelming; from the middle-aged women chattering on, to the children running around, oblivious to the unorganized chaos around them. The crowd paid no attention to him. This was indeed a strange crowd of plebeians. They all seemed to be coming from a strange time, from some time far in the past. Though unfamiliar, this place seemed friendly to the Spy. If given a minute, he could acquaint himself with the place easily. It seemed like one of those places a person would visit, but not consider a home. _

_And there, tucked between the withering lemons and the green oranges, there stood a boy. Normally children would put off the Spy. He never really liked being around them. But something he saw in this blue-eyed child attracted him, like he had seen them somewhere before. For a brief second, the boy moved his jet-black hair off his face and looked at the Frenchman. One brief second was all it took for the Spy to realize who the boy was._

_He was looking at himself._

_The chattering soon became a murmur, a French murmur. And somewhere in this crowd, he saw them; standing extremely close to the bored young boy, there were two figures. One might have been in his early twenties, one in her late teens. They spoke._

"_I'm not here for him!" She said, defensively. "I came here because…"_

"_Because what?" Asked the man, a cigarette lingering in his mouth. The man talking to the young girl seemed much older than he was, what with his fedora, trench coat and all. But the provocation in his voice suggested immaturity. He cackled at her._

"_Look, Lorraine, I know as well as you do that the man you're looking for is gone."_

"_What do you mean?" She asked meekly._

"_Don't think I don't notice, Lorraine. You saw him once. Once! He won't be coming here again."_

"_I…" The young girl turned away, covering her chest by tugging the side of her old, tattered coat. "I'm not here because of him."_

"_Oh, shut up. You can't stop thinking about him! Every time you come here, it's something else to grab his attention: a new shade of lipstick, a less frayed dress… Come on, Lorraine, you only saw the man once! And now you're dragging your brother along with you? Pathetic!"_

_He gestured at the boy standing near the stalls, not minding their conversation. The two figures still continued to talk, oblivious to the Spy's presence._

"_So what if I admire the man?" She said, slightly louder than before. "He's a fantastic man, a great fighter, a better leader than you'll ever be!" She said, running her thin finger into his chest. He grabbed it, squeezing his palm around it until it began to hurt her. When he released her, his sleeve dropped slightly, revealing the symbol of his organization, tattooed on his wrist. The ink was as black as Death itself._

"_I care about you too much to get involved with that man, Lorraine. You know he's one of… _them._"_

_Lorraine turned her head away. For a second, Spy saw her. She was looking through him. It was a different perspective on a distant memory. The Spy was so irritated by this scene that he wanted to scream. The young girl blinked once before turning her gaze back to the haughty man._

"_I am aware of that."_

"_I'm only trying to protect you. I'm only trying to protect your brother! You shouldn't get involved with those people!"_

_Lorraine frowned. "Whose side are you on?"_

"_The right side! If he goes down and you get too attached to him, you…" He stood up, his voice turning a bit softer than before. "You know what I mean. I'm actually glad this whole thing between you two is just one-sided glorification."_

_The girl's eyebrows almost connected when she looked down, lowering the tone of her voice._

"_You know, the more you talk about his kind like this, the more you remind me of… _them. _And the fact that you're a valued member of the Resistance disgusts me."_

_The man's jaw dropped in disbelief. Without another word, Lorraine grabbed the young boy that stood beside them by the wrist and dragged him forcefully through the market. He did not protest._

"_Come along, __Pré-Far! I think I saw some fine pomegranates."_

"_I hate pomegranates!" The boy whined. _

"_I know," Lorraine said through a sigh. "But sometimes, pomegranates are the only things life gives you."_

_The two walked towards the Spy, passing through him. They turned to dust as they went through the mercenary. The whole market seemed to crumble, and the Spy felt incredibly cold. He clutched his shoulders and coughed as this universe fell around him._

He was back to his own time. His lower jaw dropped and cigarettes began falling out of his jacket. He had no idea what had just happened. Picking up the cigarettes on the floor, he headed towards the chocolates. Something told him that he might need those.

* * *

Quite soon, the group came out with their newly claimed possessions. The Spy stocked up of cigarette but refused to talk about why he gathered so much chocolate. In fact, he refused to talk at all.

"If those buggers melt on the trip, yer cleaning them!" Sniper said bossily. Sarah chuckled, still clutching her book. The Spy didn't even recognize Sniper's warning. The Pyro and the Scout were the last to come outside, smiling at something they picked up. Dell found that odd.

He stepped in front of the van, stretching his hand out and forbidding them to pass through the door.

"Alright, fellas," he said, placing his hands on his hips and tapping his foot. "Whatcha got?"

The Scout turned his head away, not wanting to show the Engineer his loot. Dell grunted, grabbing the pile from Scout's hands.

"Lesee… candy, chips, soda…" He frowned as he pulled out a few round, colorful wrappers. Scout immediately blushed, not even showing those to Pyro.

"Condoms?" Dell asked. "_Really?"_

"Well, uh… you dunno how long we're gonna be stuck there! We might need to repopulate the world!"

"…and condoms are gonna help you do that?"

"Well…" Scout scratched the back of his neck. "When ya put it like that…"

"Hmmd hmm hmmre hmm ghmmna rhmmphmmpulhmmte thmm whrhmmd whmmth? Thmm Shmmphmmr?" The Pyro asked through a chuckle.

"No, I ain't gonna bang the freakin' Sniper, ya freakin' fag!"

Needless to say, the condoms were tossed away. Even more needless to say, the Spy began laughing like a maniac at the Scout's statement.

Dell narrowed his eyes at the last thing the Scout didn't reveal. It was a magazine. One of _those_ magazines. There was a sickeningly familiar blonde on the cover. Scout hid it behind his back as soon as he saw the Engineer looking at it. The tinkerer sighed.

"The magazine is fine. Just keep it away from… everyone."

"Sweet," Scout said through a grin.

The Sniper yelled at the Scout, telling him to get a move on. Irene listened to the tone of the marksman's voice. It was incredibly familiar. Listening to it filled her with fear and rage. Where did she hear a voice like that before? Why was it so difficult to listen to? She shut her eyes and winced, not entirely sure why she did that.

At that very moment, a sound came from the roof of the car. It sounded like a gunshot. The group flinched as the entirety of the van became covered with disgusting, greenish goo. The goo hit the Scout on the head just before he rushed back inside. The group was disgusted and frightened.

"What in tha hell wos that?" Asked the Demoman.

"Aw, piss…" the Sniper looked at the broken boards that fell in front of the van.

"Our zombie Jesus exploded."


	9. The Youngin

**A/N: **Hello, loves! This is my last nonsensical chapter. It all goes downhill from here. Sit back and enjoy the mayhem.

* * *

Graveline never knew it would come to this. It seemed like only yesterday when she was about to create a new medical sensation. She was so close to achieving her dream goal, creating a brighter future for mankind. But then, he happened. Patient 219. Why did he have to bring this suffering? How could such a banal experiment go so horribly wrong? What was she going to do? How could she have let this happen? All these questions flew through her head while she ran into her office, followed by a horde of reporters, hounding her with the same questions.

What now?

What are you going to do?

What about us?

Such an intelligent woman had no clue of how to answer them. The anti-depressant caused the New Plague. If an ordinary drug caused all this, she mused, the public would be damned if they let the Corp.'s new groundbreaking medicine go into mass production. Synestra was already in her office, going over numerous papers. Graveline shouted something to the reporters, shutting the door and locking them. The men still banged at the metal surface, and each strike of their large fists reminded Graveline of failure. The doctor leaned against the door, looking up into the neon lamps filling the room with a bright glow. She gulped. Though nobody else knew who approved the drug that caused the New Plague, she knew that they were soon going to find out. They already began speculating, and speculations lead to revelations.

And in her case, revelations lead to almost certain death.

Synestra folded another paper into an overflowing drawer and shut it. She looked at her boss with worry in her eyes.

"Do… do they know?"

Graveline shook her head. A soft whine escaped her lips. "Soon…"

Synestra helped Graveline move away from the door and lead her to her desk. She sat down, burying her face in her palms with a sigh. She was trapped. She needed to tell the public whose fault it was, or they will continue digging for evidence forever. But how could she tell them? How could she jeopardize her job, nay, her existence? Breathing more heavily than she intended, she shifted around the papers covering her desk.

"What are you going to tell them?"

"I…" She gulped. "I don't know…"

Graveline turned to her assistant, the first victim of an Infected attack. Her gashed out eye was covered by a thin eye patch. That damn eye patch was the very thing that raised those speculations, which lead a group of reporters to Graveline's door. She narrowed her dark eyes at her.

"When do you suppose I should tell them?"

Synestra listened to the banging outside, growing quieter. It never stopped, but it did slow down when the reporters grew bored of waiting. The assistant smiled, nervously.

"Is there… is there any way around it?"

Graveline shook her head.

"I was the one who approved it. I was so caught up in the anti-cancerogen that I-!"

She lifted her gaze up. Her face was soon lit up, as she had a moment of pure clarity.

"No…" She stood up, still in a haze. "No, there's… there is a way…"

She tossed the chair aside, making her way towards the large computer in the corner of her office. She switched it on, and soon a series of numerical sequences scribbled themselves on the pitch-black screen. Graveline placed her hand under her chin and mumbled.

"A coded phone call… We could decode it and mix it… maybe… maybe…"

"Ma'am?" Synestra asked. Her boss turned to her, raising up her gloved finger, still walking around the room and working out the plan in her head.

"Synestra, I'm going to need to use deception. I can't lose my job like this… So far, the people know that this was caused by a drug… But which drug? We produce many! And anyone can be to blame! Yes… yes this can work!"

Synestra came up to the doctor, who was speaking hastily and pacing around the office. Graveline turned to her, lifting up her eyebrow, a mischievous grin spreading across her pale, sullen face.

"Synestra… we are going to let a few phone calls leak."

The assistant nodded.

* * *

The van jumped once again. This part of the road was bumpy and unkempt. The group turned to the side once again. They already stopped waiting for the Sniper to apologize for driving through this part. He didn't even bother excusing himself by now. Apologies couldn't smoothen the road, so why bother?

The Medic was pushed forward violently. He still managed to hold onto the bed he was sitting on, but his glasses fell right on the floor, in front of Sarah. The doctor cursed in German, squinting at the girl. She put her book down on the ground and examined the glasses, soon looking at the Medic. She smiled at him and reached her arm out to hand him the glasses.

The Medic could name at least four things wrong with this situation. One: Sarah was touching his glasses without his consent. Two: she was handing them to him, holding them by the glass. Three: she was smuggled in a crate and placed in their group without a valid permission from the team. Four: she was sitting right in front of him. The doctor frowned at her and grabbed the glasses, not even thanking her. She didn't take this personally and returned to her book. The Medic grabbed the glasses, peering at the small fingerprint on the lens. He huffed and began rubbing the glasses against a small cloth he held in his pocket. The Heavy looked at the doctor, cursing and cleaning, cleaning and cursing.

"You know…" the Heavy started silently, not wanting the Engineer and Irene to hear him, "Leetle child is not Infected."

The Medic stared at the small cloth and placed the glasses over his nose. He quickly straightened them and folded the cloth into his pocket.

"I don't like it vhen people touch my belongings."

"No." Heavy said, more sternly this time. "Doctor doesn't like _kids _touching his things." The Heavy then leaned closer to the Medic. "In fact… doctor doesn't like children."

The Medic's nose travelled to the side of his face in discomfort. He sighed.

"Well… Can you blame me? _Kinder sind_… Children are so…" He let out a frustrated groan, hoping that the sound alone would clear everything up. It did not.

"What is bad with kids?" Heavy shrugged. "Leetle Sarah does not hurt anybody. She sits there reading book. Some kids you have to get used to…" The man looked at the Scout reading his dirty magazines. "But some kids you have to like."

"_Bitte_, _Herr_ Heavy, I do not haff to like any child! Zhey are annoying, filthy, needy… I vould never be around them unless I had to."

The Russian watched the Medic stare out of the window, occasionally picking at the rim of his glasses. He imagined them being dirtied by Sarah's grubby little hands. In reality, they were nearly spotless. Heavy lowered his brooding tone down to a whisper.

"Will Doctor… have children with Natasha?"

The Medic suddenly felt his wedding band itch. He cupped his hand and tapped his foot nervously. Another bump on the road later, he spoke.

"Natasha und I haff discussed zhe matter. She does not vant children either."

Heavy raised his eyebrows. "Is Doctor sure?"

"She is my vife, Heavy! I think I know my own vife!" He said, defensively.

"She is also Heavy's sister!"

The Medic cowered back after that remark. He looked down at the dreaded child. She put away the book and stared at the two arguing men. The adults weren't paying as much attention. The doctor frowned at her.

"_Ja? Was guckst du?_" The Medic asked snippily. The little girl bowed her head down.

"…sorry I took your glasses."

The van then came to a halt, much to the others' anger.

"Hey, what's the big deal? Keep movin'!" The Scout cried. The Sniper looked at the stain on the window, left over from the Infected explosion. Irene couldn't scrub it all off. The Sniper's eyes narrowed at the two roads, one leading them to their sanctuary. But which one?

"Uh… Dell?" He turned to the Engineer. "Which way do we go?"

Dell looked up from the barrel of his gun he was cleaning. His jaw dropped.

"Which way? Ah thought you knew, you're the one drivin'!"

"Oi don't know all the roads, mate! This moight come as a shock to ya, but Oi can't exactly know everythin'!"

"No, ya know what?" Dell placed the gun on his lap and elevated his hand. "That doesn't shock me at all! Ah could've guessed that you'd get us lost halfway through the middle of nowhere!"

"You wont to drive, mate? You want to pick a way?"

Sarah turned her head to the Sniper.

"Why dontcha just ask for directions?"

"Well, ya see, Sheila," the Sniper said condescendingly, "The thing about deserted towns is that there is no one to ask!"

"You can ask that guy."

Irene narrowed her eyes at her daughter. "What guy?"

"That guy!" Sarah pointed at the window the Pyro was pinned up against. "That guy playin' the banjo!"

Saying that the eleven people pinned up against the window in a second would be an understatement. The sound that was coming from outside was odd, yet unmistakable. The gentle, almost lazy pulling of the strings that rung through the seemingly abandoned town was coming from outside of a small saloon. An old man, his beard as white as snow and almost as thick, played the instrument and rocked to and fro in his rocking chair. His eyes were glassy. He looked at the van, but not the people inside. A shotgun was smoking beside him. The group stared at the old man, their mouths ajar. The Infected couldn't play the banjo this well. It was common knowledge.

"Well," the Demoman said, firmly grasping the empty bottle of Scrumpy in his hand, "Let's ask tha man."

He was the first one out. He stumbled out of the van, and the inside of the vehicle soon became fresher. The Scot limped towards the man, still strumming the strings lazily. The Demoman cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, do ya knoe tha way ta the nearest top-secret military base?"

The old man's strumming suddenly stopped and he put down his banjo near his moonshine.

"Yeah," the old man said, taking his shotgun. "It's back the way you came, you Infected critter-lover!"

The old man cocked the weapon.

"Wait!" Sarah said and ran outside, much to Irene's fright. The little girl stood proudly next to the Demoman. As he saw the little girl, the man's jaw dropped.

"He's not an Infected! He's just black!"

The Engineer looked around the near-empty town. _Oh God_, he thought, _we're in the south. The redneck south._

"Holy Jesus, Mary and Zeus!" The man shrieked, climbing at the top of his rocking chair and toppling over. "Well that there's a youngin!"

The group slowly stepped out of the van when they hear a few dozen voices come out of the run-down houses.

_"A youngin?"_

_"A youngin?"_

_"Well, shave mah back and call me grandma! We've got a youngin!"_

A small horde of rednecks came out and surrounded the two strangers, the Demoman and the little girl. There were fat rednecks, short rednecks, old rednecks… But there was no redneck younger than twenty. They stared at the girl and tussled her hair, tugged at her clothes and pressed her cheeks together. They chattered, looking at her like they were looking at a precious antique. The Demoman frowned and tried to push them away.

"Eye, give the lass some space!"

"Sorry," said an older woman dressed in rags. "We jus' ain't seen a youngin 'round these parts fer a looong, long time. Most of 'em just went on and died!" She crooked her eyes and held the Demoman's arm. "Come to think of it, we ain't seen a colored guy 'round these parts…"

"Excuse me!" The Engineer said, pushing through the crowd. "Where exactly are these parts?"

The old man smiled, showing both of his teeth. "Well, yer fellers are in Kentucky!"

"Kentucky?" The Sniper said from behind his steering wheel. "Oi guess we take a left turn, then…"

"My, oh my, we haven't seen a youngin in a mighty long time!" Cried the old man. "We knew we'd see a youngin pass through these parts! We knew we'd see her someday!"

"How much do ya give fer her?" Asked a young woman. "We can give ya'll a chicken and a pig in a poke fer her!"

"Ah'm afraid my daughter is not for sale," Dell said, pressing Sarah against himself. The little girl shook her fist at them.

"Yeah! And Ah'm worth a bunch more than a pig! Ah'm worth a whole dang-diddly farm!"

The Medic scoffed at the uncultured oafs, becoming hysterical over a child. He could not understand it. With a groan, he went back inside the van. The rednecks talked about the youngin some more.

"Her skin's as smooth as the belly of a pig!" Said an older woman with thick, dark hair.

"And she's as small as a Kentucky bean come springtime, ayuh, ayuh, she is!" Said a middle-aged man in a bandanna.

"Ya know who'd like to see her? Blind Bette!" Exclaimed a toothless woman.

Dell quickly pulled away his daughter, explaining that she will not be meeting anybody. Sarah's eyes travelled from one doting redneck to another, all speaking hastily and in unison. The old man waved his hand.

"Now, now, now, dontcha worry about it! Please, 'fore you leave with the youngin', why dontcha stay with us survivors? We're the last ones you'll get if yer travelin' west! Come on! Mah wife can whip us some pork fer ya'll!"

The old man gestured at an old, frizzy-haired woman, holding a steaming pot of stew.

"Come on, now, ya'll need it. It's a mighty long road and it gits mighty cold…"

"Ah'm sorry…" Dell said, "But Ah really don't…"

"Did somebody say food? I want food! Give me food!" The Soldier came rushing out of the van. With that it was settled. The group was staying. The Engineer sighed as the old woman took Sarah by the hand and guided her into the saloon, explaining that this is where the kitchen was. Irene ran after them, wanting to keep a close eye on her daughter. The rednecks praised the youngin, telling her to come visit them soon. Sarah very much enjoyed the show.

And the Scout very much enjoyed looking at the five girls, standing in line behind the old man.

"Now, these here are mah daughters." He pointed at the five beauties, waving at the men entering. "Mary-Sue, Becky-Sue, Mary-Lue, Becky-Lue and Mary-Lue-Sue."

The Scout managed to wave at them, before he was dragged to the side by the Sniper.

"Oi'm warnin' ya mate, they seem like a catch, but those Sheilas have less brain cells than teeth… and Oi'm not sure about them havin' teeth, either."

The Scout smiled at Mary-Becky -Whatshername.

"You see no teeth, I see endless possibilities!"

With that remark, the Scout ran over to the girls. He gave away a sheepish smile and slouched.

"Uh… hi."

"Howdy!" Said one of the girls loudly; "Where ya from, hun?"

"Uhm… Massachusetts."

"Mas-uh… Is that like Missouri?"

"Nah," said a ravishing blonde; "That's like Spain or somethin'!"

"Spain? You mean like Mexico?"

"Naw, Ah mean Yurope. Mexico is where tacos live!"

The rest of the evening went by in a mind-numbing blur.

* * *

An old woman brought Sarah up into a dark room while the group was having dinner. She told her to keep very quiet. The girl listened to the woman, slowly making her way up the rickety stairs. She held a candle in her hand, and it illuminated the room with a soft glow. The hot light fell against the girl's face. It felt incredibly hot but Sarah didn't want to say a thing. She could hear her parents and her father's colleagues talking downstairs. The sound was quite loud at first, but the higher she and the woman went, their chattering chorus turned down to a whisper. The two women walked up to the top of the stairs. Sarah looked down briefly before the woman gently nudged her to the side, pressing her spotted hand on the girl's back.

The two made their way to an unhinged door. The paneling was beginning to peel off; the white paint was turning the brightest shade of yellow. Sarah was skeptical about coming inside. The woman gave her a reassuring smile and gently nudged the door open.

"Before you leave, there is somebody else who'd like to see ya. This might be the last time she ever sees a youngin."

The first thing Sarah noticed when she entered the room was the smell. It smelt of old leather and alcohol. It was a strange, oddly hygienic smell that she had a chance to sense one time when she was at a hospital. The room was dark, only illuminated by a candle sitting up in a plate, floating in a pool of oil. The candle flickered near a small bed, the flame bent to the side every time the person lying in it took a deep, forceful inhale. The person's hair was braided, stretching across the bed. The person's skin was wrinkled and gray, almost as if it were slowly turning to ashes and dust. Sarah was frightened by the sight at first. The woman beside her instructed her not to be afraid.

"Leslie?" The woman turned to the person lying in bed; "The youngin's here to see ya."

The woman took a deep breath, her chapped lips parted. At that moment, the girl was pushed towards the head of the bed. The image before her was unsettling; an old woman, older than any woman Sarah had ever seen outside of a coffin, was breathing heavily, her eyes without pupils half closed. A small smile crept across her face as she placed her frail hand across Sarah's smooth cheek.

"This…" She said slowly; "Is the youngin."

Sarah nodded.

"You… you know, Ah… Ah always wanted to see a youngin before Ah passed… what's your name, dear?"

"Sarah," the girl said through a gulp. The old woman repeated her name once, smiling slightly more.

"What a lovely name. Ah reckon you're the last in your survivor's group…"

The woman looked up to the dirty, mold-covered ceiling. Her smile wiped off her face, and was replaced with a serious frown.

"Sarah, this is probably hard for you to understand… but right now… you're the one your group needs most. Under my pillow… There is a gun. These old eyes aren't as good as they used to be… the old thing doesn't do me any good no more… Ah… Ah want you to have it… The future lies…"

She sighed loudly.

"The future lies on youngins like you, Sarah."

The woman closed her eyes and exhaled. Sarah waited for a second to start feeling around her pillow. Her body was stiff, unmovable. And there it was; a simple handgun. It was cold and black, a simple Beretta. It was hardly a weapon she needed, much less the weapon she wanted. But this weapon wasn't about killing. This weapon was a symbol, a symbol that she made the group about as much as her travelling companions. She stared at the weapon, thinking about the last words that the old woman said. She could hear the woman who brought her closing the door.

"What's… what's going on?" Sarah asked.

With a fearsome death grab, the old woman grabbed Sarah's wrist, still clutching the handgun. Sarah tried to scream, but little could be heard behind closed doors. The old woman seemed vigorous, insane. Her grip on Sarah was solid, though her icy-cold hand was shaking.

"Youngin…" she said to her, "Pull the trigger."

Sarah watched in horror as the woman placed the tip of the gun onto her own temple. Sarah tried to jerk her hand away, but to no avail. Calling for help didn't do any good. She cursed ever making her way up here.

"I don't- I don't want to do this!" She said in tears. She couldn't even slide her finger off the trigger. The old woman smiled.

"I have been trapped inside this body for far too long, youngin. I wanted to see one last youngin before I went to the Lord… I saw you, Sarah. And if you came to our town, then a youngin might be born in our town…"

"Please…" Sarah's eyes formed large, salty tears of fright; "Please don't make me do this."

"You need to take care of the group," the woman said, licking her lips. "Sometimes, that means putting the members out of her misery."

Sarah sobbed as the woman pressed the barrel of the gun deeper into her temple. She revealed a toothless grin.

"Come on, youngin. Don't be weak! You need to do this! Fulfill an old woman's wish and let me die!"

"I can't!" Sarah screamed.

But the old woman wasn't letting go. She truly wanted to die. And it was becoming more and more clear to Sarah that she was brought here for the sole purpose of ending the woman's life.

"This ain't the last time you'll be doin' this, youngin. Jus' try and shoot straight."

Hot tears streamed down the girl's face. Soon those tears were no more.

The old woman's arm dropped over the side of her bed. Sarah held the smoking gun in her hand. For a terrifying moment, she thought that she would have to make another shot, to make sure that she killed her. But the woman's calm face gave away death and death alone. Still shaking, Sarah clutched the gun close to her chest. It felt cold, even though it had just been fired. She wasn't crying anymore. Instead, she felt nothing. Her body was overflowing with an indescribable feeling of apathy. Even as she stared deep in the woman's glassy eyes, she could only think about the foul scent coming from the old woman's pores.

She had just taken an innocent life.

She shrugged it off and went out of the room, the gun tucked in her hand.


	10. The Arrival

**A/N: **Well... they're here!

* * *

Four days.

The group has been travelling through the land for four days. The trip that was supposed to be quite quick ended up stretching over most of the week, making the excursion the worst road trip ever, as described by the Scout. The rednecks they spent one day with were nice enough; they helped clean and load up the van with gasoline. Just as they left Kentucky, the group was attacked by another horde of Infected. They were fought off relatively quickly, though not without injury. After the battle, the Medic had his hands full. He had to heal every single member of the group. Sarah and Irene were no exception. He healed Irene before anyone else, but saved Sarah for last. He couldn't understand why she complained so much just until he healed her.

Three broken ribs and a displaced shoulder. Was that so hard to walk off?

After that horde, there was no decent Infected carcass to nail to a board. Because of Irene's use of the chainsaw, a couple of disfiguring headshots, some coming from an unlisted small caliber handgun, and a certain Australian's uncontrolled use of a large knife, most of the bodies were unrecognizable. They couldn't even be used as a warning.

The group carried on west, their spirits down and their weapons hot. It seemed almost hopeless at one point, it seemed like they were going to be stuck inside that tiny van until they run out of ammo and get killed by a lone Infected with enough coordination to hold a crowbar.

But then, on a miraculous summer day, they saw it.

The Scout had just woken up from his fifteen-minute nap. This was the only way he could get any sleep. Tired and hungry, he stared outside the window, hoping that the sight of the field would get his mind off his rumbling stomach. His eyes didn't even open all the way, and he already let out an ecstatic yell.

"Guys!" He shouted, pointing outside. His mind was too numb to formulate a phrase. He started laughing while the others looked outside. Beyond the fields, across the plains, deep within the withering trees stood their sanctuary. It was a series of sheds and run-down houses, surrounded by a small wooden fence. It wasn't going to keep the Infected away, the Administrator thought that the distance would be enough. It should, it had been over twelve hours since they saw a single Infected. These parts were untouched by the New Plague. Dell buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, thank God!" He said, clasping his hands together and looking up. He mouthed another phrase of gratitude into the heavens. "If Ah had to spend another minute here Ah'd blow mah head off."

"Maybe I vould join you in zhat exploit," the Medic said, smiling at the fact that he wouldn't have to spend all this time around a foolish child.

"Hold on, blokes," the Sniper added, "We ain't there yet."

"We would have been there a long time ago if you weren't driving like a sissy grandmother!" The Soldier yelled at the marksman. "It's bad enough that we are forced to stay in this rickety abomination!"

"Well, if yer dissatisfied, Oi can always turn this bangah around and-"

"NO!" The group shouted in unison. The Sniper snickered.

"'S wot Oi thought."

* * *

Arriving at Harvest was quite chaotic, to say the least. Scout demanded that he should be placed in the largest room in the base that normally belonged to the Demoman. The Soldier joined their discussion, explaining that a great man must acquire a great room. According to him, he needed place for his trophies. While they argued, the Spy snuck upstairs and claimed the room for himself, filling the closet space with cigarettes, suits, bullets and stolen chocolate. Due to lack of space, Irene and Dell were to share a room. They claimed that they were planning to do that from the beginning, and their statement caused an avalanche of drunken slurs coming from the Demoman. Sarah was placed in a room just below theirs. The Sniper let her have it as he preferred sleeping in the van. That, and because the room had a family of rats living in the walls. He decided to skip over this last bit. All in all, the living arrangements resembled arguments siblings would have over bedrooms as they entered a newly purchased house.

The first two hours were spent setting up the food, preparing the ammunition, cleaning the weapons et cetera. The Engineer decided to build a couple of level three sentries near the fence, just in case the Infected spread. He began making blueprints for the soon-to-be-built sentries, sitting at the desk in his room.

Sarah spent that time walking around the house, trying to get acquainted with the new area. She walked slowly, the secret handgun tucked inside the hem of her trousers. From what she understood, the electricity came and went; the lights were powered by an extremely slow generator. They could not rely on it much, meaning that their lighting would consist of candles strategically placed around the rooms. The water was transported from a small creek outside of the base. For a military base, this was extremely basic. But for now, they would not be considering this a military base. They would consider this a sanctuary, a paradise as long as everyone stayed alive.

The Sniper's van was parked outside, several feet away from the main house. In theory, she could climb on top of it and jump through one of the second story windows. She would have to try it sometime. Scout already was.

The Bostonian leaped magnificently from the van and onto the house, grabbing onto the cylindrical gutters. He hung on the metal until he jumped back on the van, landing on the yellowed grass with a back flip. The Sniper shouted at him for getting footprints over the roof of his van. The Scout paid no attention to this. He even ran straight past the older assassin, pushing him away.

"Outta my way, grandpa!" The Scout laughed, climbing the van once again. The Sniper sighed and cursed into his hand before he returned to biting one of the cuticles around his nails. Sarah blinked once before she spoke to the marksman.

"If ya keep doin' that, your fingers are gonna get crooked."

The Sniper looked at her with an irritated expression.

"Not to mention that it ain't pretty to watch."

The Sniper shook his head and muttered something, hoping that the girl would hear him and leave.

"Oi should've listened to Medic and left you at that redneck town."

Sarah scoffed. "So Ah could kill another old lady? No thank you! Ya know how hard it is to get blood off clothes? Nuh-uh. Not doin' that again unless Ah have to."

Before the marksman could analyze what the girl had just said, she left without a trace. And just as he turned around to see where she went, the Scout fell off his van and onto the ground, screaming about breaking his back and needing the Medic. Nobody even noticed the girl wandering off to a field filled with targets.

* * *

"Alright," the Scot said, tossing the bottle of Scrumpy aside and wiping his mouth. With the grace of a freight train, he held up his grenade launcher and pointed it at a wooden Pyro. "Look ae me blow up these three goys at unce."

The Soldier tilted up his helmet and squinted at the target.

"There is only one of them."

The Scot sheepishly turned to his friend and blinked. Not being able to close both of his eyes at the same time, he ended up winking at him twice. He smiled.

"Well den, eye'll make the one guy inta two…thh…reee."

Sarah hid behind a small shed and watched the grenade fly graciously through the air and impact the wooden board. It was torn in more than three pieces, but the Scot did not mind. Instead, he ran up to the Soldier, laughing and wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

"Eye… eye told ya Eye could doo eet, man!"

"Not bad…" The Soldier said, contemplating the debris. He suddenly saw something very wrong. He tossed the Demoman off himself and began marching around the wreckage.

"No, no, no! You're still firing around the heads!"

The Demoman blinked. "… so?"

"So? SO?!" The man responded, becoming red in the face. He gestured to the wreckage once more. "That might be good if you had a rifle or a shotgun, private, but you're handling the heavy stuff."

"Yeah?"

"Well then you have to shoot for the legs! That way you get to do more damage. If you shoot for the heads, you get one dead, maybe two. Three, if you're lucky."

"Three ain't a number."

"Three is a goddamn number, now shut up! Now," he said, pointing at a piece of wood, "pretend that that is an Infected liver."

"Uh-huh."

"Now that is what you want to see. You want to see them blown up to bits! Fire… lower!"

"Right."

"Good," the Soldier stood up straight and raised the Scot's shoulders. "Now do it again."

Sarah looked at the men firing their weapons until the entire training field was turned into an unrecognizable wasteland. Her hand was clutching the handle of her handgun. She wanted to join them, to fire. But for now, she could just stand and watch. Who knows? She might learn something from these idiots.

Another wooden head flew off, the last one before the Soldier finally decided to leave. Sarah thought about finding some moving targets. Possibly that rat that ran around her new bedroom.

* * *

The night came over the field like a starry shadow. It covered the sky and shrouded the men in darkness. But they were not afraid. They went outside, knowing that they were safe tonight. They gathered wood, lit up a fire and feasted on some food Irene had prepared. According to Dell, the woman could take a rock and make it edible. She walked around the campfire, handing out some water and more food to be eaten by the fire. After a while, she was invited to sit with them. She did, and Sarah came along with her.

The chirping of the crickets and the crackling of the fire was cut by laughter, pure, honest laughter coming from the mercenaries. They spoke of some battles won; they celebrated them in this manner as well, together, gathered around a fire set on a couple of the enemy Soldier's shovels. They usually drank during their celebrations. At those words, Irene stood up to fetch some smuggled liquor.

"Don't bother, Irene," the Spy said. "Sit down, relax. We know zhat zhe Demoman will drink all of eet before any of us get a chance to taste it."

The Scot burped into his fist in agreement.

"Ah could have a drop or two," Sarah said, roasting a large marshmallow on a stick she found. "Ah can get it mahself if ya want."

"Nice try," said the Engineer with a smile. Sarah shrugged.

"Well I gotta hand it to ya, Dellboy," the Scout said. "Your girls ain't completely useless."

"Maybe zhe vife isn't," muttered the Medic to himself. The two girls did not hear the doctor, and smiled in thanks.

The group looked around them. It was quite peaceful; the eleven of them seemed to be alone in the world. The flames whooshed up and twirled like ribbons, much to the Pyro's amusement. It sometimes placed its hand into the fire. It did not burn; it felt comfortable like a mother's embrace. The grass underneath them was dry and sharp, but they were sitting on it comfortably. The group had a habit of making awkward things enjoyable. It was almost as if nothing had changed.

Besides the black-and-white television being the only source to the outside world, the television that only played two channels: news and entertainment, the group could have thought that they were home. In a way, this was their home. Home was where the heart was.

"This is noice, ain't it?" Asked the Sniper. "When wos the last toime we were here loike this?"

"Together, you mean?" The Heavy looked into the stars above. "Christmas, Heavy thinks."

"Christmas," the Sniper responded. "That's a long toime ago."

"Yes."

"Hm."

The silence surrounding them wasn't intrusive or deafening. It was a calm change from everything that had happened during the past few days on the road. The days where they feared for their lives. This sanctuary was supposedly temporary, but at that point, they didn't care if they had to be here forever. They had their water supply, their guns cleaned and reloaded and their garden weeded and prepared for planting. Irene worried about starting planting in the middle of the summer, but only because she didn't know that the land on Harvest was never barren. Deep down, the men knew that they were safe. The crickets produced a beautiful melody that enticed Sarah. She looked up into the sky, ignoring the Scout's munching and the occasional cough coming from the Spy. She smiled into the sky and, out of nowhere; a sweet sound escaped her throat.

_Of all the money that e'er I had  
I've spent it in good company  
And all the harm that e'er I've done  
Alas it was to none but me _

The group looked at the girl, Medic excluded. She sung softly, not caring if the men were listening to her singing or not. This song calmed her, fulfilled the symphony the atmosphere created. Somewhere between the pleasantly surprised mercenaries sat the Sniper. He knew this song. He was surprised that he did. A strange feeling of déjà vu overpowered him. He looked up into the stars, flickering and dancing across the royal blue cover. The girl's sweet voice mixed with the angelic tone of a stranger, a beautiful stranger from his past.

_And all I've done for want of wit  
To memory now I can't recall _

* * *

So fill to me the parting glass  
Good night and joy be with you all

_"Wot kinda song is that?" Mundy asked, taking a bite of his roasted caribou. The woman sitting beside him stroked a red lock of hair behind her ear._

_"A damn good one. My nana taught me."_

_"Well Oi think it's horrible," he lied. The woman smiled, turning her camera over to him. _

_"You're horrible," she sneered in her nauseating mixed accent of both the east and the south. _

_Without another spoken word, she looked up into the roaring campfire. A smile stretched across her pale, almost transparent face. The moonlight and the fire shone upon it, making it glisten. Mundy looked at the woman with a content smile plastered over his face. The way she looked that night, silhouetted, he'd never forget it._

Of all the comrades that e'er I had  
They are sorry for my going away

* * *

_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had  
They would wish me one more day to stay _

The girl was not bad at all, Mundy mused. Sarah ended her song with a smile and continued to look into the fire, twirling and whooshing far up into the night sky. The lack of compliments did not put her off. They weren't expected, or needed. She knew that she had done a fine job with the song.

_Not bad_, Mundy thought.

_She still needs to work on her pitch a bit._

* * *

**A/N:** I know, I know... ten chapters in and I'm yet to kill a single person. Do not fret, my darlings. That's coming, don't you worry...

Incidentally, see that rectangular box down there? And yes, the song is a reference to The Walking Dead.


	11. The Settlement

**A/N: **You might have noticed that this story was dead. It is. I genuinely regret beginning this and I think I'll simply post the next couple of chapters I've managed to write over a prolonged period of time and quit while I'm ahead.

* * *

The first few days spent in the sanctuary were hectic, to say the least. The large amount of food didn't stop Irene from checking all the supplies twice, working in the garden and marveling at the bare tree branches. How could anything sprout from those things? How does anything grow from anywhere? How can anything survive in this heat?

While she tried to keep her head together, the men mostly worked around the house. The Engineer was setting up a couple of sentries near the base fence, just in case an Infected armada came through. The Soldier, Heavy and the Demoman were fixing the holes in the roof while the Scout tried to fix the gutters he tore out of the side of the house. His efforts were futile, and resulted with a hammered thumb and an inevitable trip to the Medic. The firebug cleaned the house as much as it could, finding old, tattered pieces of furniture in the attic and chopping them up for firewood. The Spy tried to explain to it that the firewood would not be needed for at least five months, but to no avail. This argument sparked a couple of times, and it would end as soon as the Pyro began lighting matches dangerously close to the Spy's balaclava. The Frenchman would shy away, muttering profanities in his native language.

The only person not of any help on that hot, summer day was the Sniper. He switched between the two channels that played on their black-and-white television. The signal was weak and jittery; the sound came and went, hissing every few minutes. The Sniper tolerated this shortcoming, too bored to care. At times, he found that switching between Monty Python and the news could have amusing results.

_"Ten more victims were found at the scene of the massacre, dug up from under a pile of rubble. Some claim that the building was demolished after a witness, who wished to be unnamed_, _informed its residents about an Infected, supposedly living in the building. The last surviving resident claims to be-"_

***BZZZZT!***

_"…-pining for the fjords," _Michael Palin said to one customer in his pet shop. John Cleese's face turned red with rage. He tightened his grip on the Norwegian Blue.

_"PININ' for the FJORDS? What kind of talk is that? Look, why did he fall flat on his back the moment I got 'im home?" _

_"The Norwegian Blue prefers-!"_

***BZZZZT!***

_"…-massive internal bleeding," _the news anchor explained the trauma, _"and three broken ribs. The infant is still being looked for. The mother claims that she last saw her child two days ago, during the first day of the invasion, and that she'd-"_

***BZZZZT!***

_"…-better replace it, then."_

The marksman had a reasonable amount of fun switching between programs, thinking about the irony of it all. Here on one hand, he mused, you had the gritty news and tragic stories about the lives of the common folk. The tough, unfortunate events that took place not that far away from the mercenaries. Some were too graphic for television, as the anchorwoman explained. On the other hand, the entertainment network acted as if everything were fine and dandy. They showed mostly comedy, possibly to avert the people from the events that took place just outside their houses. A man could be watching Michael Palin slap a man with a large cod while an Infected ripped off the neighbor's head clear off his shoulders just ten feet away.

And occasionally, to add insult to injury, Emily Payne would pop up. She was still as cheery and as well made-up as ever. The New Plague hasn't infected her town, it seemed. Still, her cheery smile seemed to fray away.

_Something wrong, princess? Found a pebble in your glass shoe?_

_"Well," _Emily started, placing her hands upon her lap and smiling towards the camera; _"The reports about the supposed Infected have gotten more common. But don't worry, my darlings. Rumors are only rumors. It's just that the reporters have gotten… well, fooled. They were fooled by the rioters and… others."_

Strangely enough, the girl wasn't as persuasive this time. She seemed almost tired of repeating the same thing over and over again. Her arguments were beginning to wear down. She muttered, stammered while she tried to get an established point across. Was she doubting herself? Was she doubting whoever controlled her?

Nobody would have that, Mundy reckoned. She would be off the air and in the Infected-infested streets by Monday.

Not being willing to listen to Emily's banter, he switched off the television set. A small, white dot appeared in the centre and stayed there well after he had left.

* * *

With his hands tucked inside his pockets, the Sniper walked outside into the scorching sun. He didn't mind the heat, he minded the lack of shade under which he would curl up and do absolutely nothing. Something told him that his teammates would not think highly of him because of that.

At that point, a squirrel scampered in front of him, dragging its small, fluffy tail behind. It climbed a bare-branched tree, tall enough to het in the way of parking but short enough to be useless in every other aspect. It stood up on its hind legs, raising its torso up and looking around it. Its black, beady eyes moved from side to side.

A bang went off, a small-caliber bullet flying through the air and hitting the tree. The squirrel ran down the trunk for dear life. The Sniper was oddly amused by this, even more so when he saw a familiar face appearing from behind a few bushes.

"Darn," Sarah said, dusting some leaves off her shirt. She looked at the marksman staring back at her. She smiled sheepishly and waved.

"Oh… hello."

"Wotcha doin' there?" He asked, genuinely interested. His gaze fell upon the small gun she held in her hands.

"Oh, Ah'm… A got this gun way back, and… Ah… just… wanted to try it out."

"Uh-huh. Ya know, there _is _a perfectly good training field a few yards away…" He said, pointing to the south, behind the chicken coops. Sarah looked at that direction and shook her head.

"Solly and Demo already tore that apart yesterday. 'Sides, Ah wanna try mah luck on a movin' target. Ah don't wanna be the only one useless when the Infected come 'round…"

The Sniper wanted to correct her "when" to an "if", but decided against it. He narrowed his eyes as she pointed her gun at the squirrel once more. The throwback was much harder this time, shaking her entire body. The critter ran off, scot free. The girl wanted to throw down her weapon in anger. The Sniper turned his back to her, crossing his arms over his chest. The girl waited patiently for another opportunity. She had about ten bullets left in the magazine. Mundy tapped his foot against the ground.

"So…" he cleared his throat; "You got enough bullets fer that gun?"

"Uh-huh…" Sarah narrowed her eyes at the squirrel, poking its head out. "Ah got some more in the shed. Those rednecks really know how to stock up, so Ah'm pretty much set."

She tried to align the gun to the silly little critter, staring at the girl. Mundy ticked his head to the side and huffed. Just as the girl placed the tip of her finger on the trigger, Mundy clenched his palms into fists and marched up to her.

"No, no, no, yer doin' it all wrong, Sheila!"

Sarah blinked and quickly moved her finger from the trigger. "Sorry?"

"Yer pulling the trigger, yer only supposed ta pull it. Here, lemme show ya."

The man kneeled behind the girl and placed his hands upon hers. She looked at him for a brief second and then focused on the critter. Mundy squinted his eyes, fidgeting around the unusually small weapon.

"Roight, here's wotchu gotta do… God, this thing is toiny… When yer finger pressed down the trigger, keep it there. You release it too soon. That makes the thing turn a bit."

"But…" Sarah tried to protest; "It just does that on its own, it pushes mah finger away!"

"Because you let it. Now, Oi noticed that you shut yer left eye when you're firin'… Try to keep both of them open."

"…_how_?"

"Easy. It's a bit of a struggle at first, but ya need to force yerself through. All the best marksmen do it."

"Do _you_ do it?" Sarah asked, raising her eyebrow. Mundy shrugged, his palms still clasped against the grip of the weapon.

"Loike Oi said; all the best marksmen do it. So, control the gun, keep calm, and think about penguins."

Sarah couldn't help but to laugh. "Shut up!"

"Seriously, think about penguins! Think about anything other than the shot, yer too stiff!"

"So, Ah'm supposed to control the gun, keep calm, keep focused, think about penguins and keep both of my eyes open?"

"Roight."

"… Why couldn't that redneck lady give me a chainsaw?" She asked, a hint of pleading in her voice.

Before Mundy could think of an answer, the squirrel scampered across the field. Its eyes were like marbles, its furl like satin. Sarah could feel Mundy's hands guiding her weapon at the creature, one quarter of an inch at a time. Warm, nervous saliva went down her throat just before she fired.

Her finger stayed on the trigger; the squirrel lied dead with a bullet hole stretching through its torso. For a second, all Sarah could think about was a chainsaw-bearing penguin. And then she could only think about this glorious moment.

She jumped for joy, almost forgetting that the Beretta's safety was off. Mundy was taken aback by her shouting and jumping, cries of victory.

"Ah did it! Ah really did it!"

Suddenly she turned to the man responsible for the shot. She looked up and nodded to him.

"Thank you, uncle Snipes!"

"Erm…" the Sniper scratched the back of his head and smiled sheepishly, "Yer welcome."

Sarah looked at the dead squirrel lying in the middle of the field, halfway between a tree and Mundy's van. She smiled.

"Now what?"

"If ya shoot another one, you got yerself breakfast." Mundy looked at the girl, sticking her tongue out in revulsion. He chuckled. "Oi'm serious! Squirrel meat is awfully good!"

"Didja ever eat it?"

"No."

"Dummy." Sarah switched the safety on and inserted the gun into the hem of her pants. She picked up a few lessons today, valuable lessons that will come in handy later on. "Ah reckon Ah stop doin' this now… we're scarin' the chickens, and Ah wanna use them to reenact _A Streetcar Named Desire_."

Mundy tilted his head back. "You loike that movie?"

"Ah know it by heart." She smiled widely at the Sniper, and he knew that this couldn't be a good sign. She grabbed his hand in hers and pulled him towards the chicken coops.

"Come on, uncle Snipes! You can be Stanley! And Ah'll be Blanche and Stella!"

* * *

The Engineer was in the kitchen, looking at his daughter and the Sniper parading around, reciting an old film. The warm water trickled down his oil-covered hands and into the sink. The kitchen was modestly decorated, a sink, a stove and an often broken refrigerator, nothing else. Power outages were quite common around these parts, so they couldn't depend on the stove that much, either. He would have to fix some things around the house later on. But right now, he looked at this oddly charming sight, from behind a stained window. Irene stood by his side, looking his way. Her hands were wet, drying off a plate with a piece of torn cloth.

"Well wouldja look at that?" Dell said, ticking his head at the two, holding chickens in their arms and shouting Stella's name. Sarah seemed to be scolding the Sniper, telling him to add more feeling into his performance. Her father smiled at this. "They seem to be getting along quite well, Ah reckon."

"Yes…" Irene said through her teeth, leaving the plate aside. "There's nothing Ah like more than seeing mah daughter play with an uncouth savage of a man who shoots at people for a livin'!"

Dell chuckled. "Honey, we shoot people fer a livin'!"

"You know what Ah meant!"

"Aw, come on Irene! Every kid needs a survivalist uncle who pees in jars and hates people!"

Irene stiffened her face and frowned, the rag in her hands crushed into a ball. Dell lowered the corners of his mouth and turned off the tap water.

Dell shook the small drops off his hands and walked up to his wife, walking across the squeaky wooden boards. He stood up on his toes to kiss her cheek. This seemed to calm her.

"Don't worry 'bout Stretch, Irene. He's harmless… well… relatively," he shrugged in admittance.

This last addition to the phrase didn't calm Irene entirely. In fact, it didn't calm her at all! Her husband walked outside and she was left to look at the two, playing and possibly crushing a few eggs. She twisted and spun the rag in her hands, hoping that it would turn into the marksman. She did not like the man. Not at all.

"Something wrong, Irene?"

Irene turned quickly, now fully aware of the fact that she started gnawing at the rag. She spat it out when she saw the Spy, dusting off some ashes from his shoulder. She noticed that his suit was scorched.

"Ah'm…" she gulped. "Ah'm fine. Ah was just thinking about all the things to do around here."

"I 'ighly doubt zhat you could do those things more effectively when your rags are bitten in half," he pointed at the moist cloth. Irene tossed the rag aside, red in the face. She turned to the sink and rummaged through a few dishes, not cleaning them. She needed to look away from him, to cool down the blood pulsing in her ears.

"Didja need somethin'?" She asked softly.

"Actually, yes." He said, straightening his tie. "I needed to apologize."

A fork dropped in the sink as Irene heard that. She slowly turned her head to the side, thinking that she misheard.

"You…uh…?"

"I remember when you first arrived. We were not expecting you and your daughter to join us. We were… hostile to you, to say the least."

Irene chuckled, wiping off some sweat off her brow with one swift movement of her knuckle. She felt incredibly hot at this point, even though the kitchen was cold and damp.

"But as time progressed," he continued, "we found out that you can be a valued member of our team. More valued than some we originally had."

A couple of faint screams were heard, and later a thump. Irene knew the Demoman fell off the roof. The next thing she could hear was Medic's cursing as he rushed downstairs to aid him. The Spy frowned in disapproval.

"Well… you see my point. On behalf of me and all my dense teammates, we apologize."

"Wow," Irene slowly reached for the rag she was angrily twisting just moments ago. "Thank you."

"Not at all. Keep up the good work… I hope one of us will."

The woman chuckled as the man left the kitchen without a word. She heard his expensive shoes click until he went out of the room and it made her wonder. Why would he be the one apologizing? If anything, he was the man who treated her best, though he had no reason to. A fine gentleman of his class shouldn't even bother with a plain woman such as herself, in theory. A few more thoughts flew through her head. She forgot about the savage that was spending time with her daughter. She forgot about the New Plague, and the chores that needed to be done. She forgot about the dishes entirely. She twisted the rag in her hands once again, though with far less vigor. She looked at the damp ceiling, misty-eyed, wondering about the apology.

* * *

"So all ya need is a plastic bag, sugar and some grapes?" Sniper asked Sarah, as they were going up the stairs. Their clothes were covered in dust and grime, but they didn't mind.

"Not even grapes! Any ol' fruit!"

"Huh… interestin'," Sniper said as he gripped the rail of the staircase. "How do you know so much about prison wine?"

"Mah grandma taught me. So, yeah," she said, skipping a few steps and standing up, flailing her rams around to keep her balance. "All you need is a plastic bag, and Ah'll show you the rest, if ya want."

"Sure," he shrugged. "Most of me plastic bags have bullets in 'em, but Oi think the Scout has a few."

"Well, get 'em and meet me downstairs in say, ten minutes?"

"Deal."

Sarah squeezed her hands together, a wide smile spread across her face. She ran down the hall.

"Ah'll go try and shoot that dang rat that's runnin' 'round mah room. See ya, uncle Snipes!"

The Sniper nodded at her, though he knew that she wouldn't see it. His gaze wandered towards the Scout's room, the door was unhinged. He slowly pushed them just enough to enter. The room was a mess, piles upon piles of dust and grime covered the walls and the furniture. His clothes were scattered across the floor, along with some empty cans of BONK! Atomic Punch. Just as he suspected, a few almost empty plastic bags were sticking out from under the edges of the Bostonian's mattress. He used those for storing ammunition as well, though being careless on the trigger, he spent most the ammunition he brought over.

The Australian picked up the heavy mattress with a grunt and slid his hand under it. A couple of bullets for his pistol were in the bag he got his hand on, but those could easily be transferred into another. And in this particular moment, alcohol sounded more tempting than preserving storage space. He wouldn't even bother telling the Scout that he, ehm, borrowed it.

But as he pulled out the bag, he pulled out something else with it. He looked down at his feet just as he released the mattress that fell on the bed rail with a thumb. A cloud of dust attacked the marksman's face, but he could still see the item clearly; a magazine. It didn't take a genius to guess what type of magazine was in question.

The marksman leaned towards it and grabbed it. As he saw the figure on the cover, he couldn't help but to look away in disgust. The fact that the woman on the cover was skimpily dressed and in a seductive pose wasn't an issue, far from it. The issue was that _she_ was on the cover. Wasn't it enough that he had to see her face every day? They had to put her on magazines, too? Granted the people wouldn't be able to hear her speak nonsense concerning the New Plague, and the readers of this particular magazine weren't exactly known for looking at faces. But the fact that she was there, smiling at him while stretching her leg up into the air, disturbed him.

But then he noticed something, something odd. Her neck. Or rather, the small purplish vein popping out of it.

For a second, he couldn't breathe. It was too familiar for his comfort. All that time she spent on the tube, he never saw this small, almost insignificant streak across her pale skin. Deep in his gut, he knew that he had seen it before. Pulsating and popping out whenever the neck was turned, whenever she was annoyed, excited or surprised. It appeared before him almost every day he was with her. His hand tightened around the sleek paper, unable to let go.

This creature wasn't that girl. This creature's vein, though similar, wasn't the same. Surely this Emily from Tennessee couldn't have been the girl. She was blonde, for start. He couldn't even stand hearing her voice, and he remembered being almost hypnotized by the girl's. No. He shook his head. This couldn't be the girl. This isn't the girl.

He heard footsteps outside and dropped the magazine. He kicked it under the bed and went outside in a rush of panic.

As he clenched the plastic bag, he found himself thinking.

_Is she?_


	12. The Sacrifice

**A/N: **I know what I've said before. But I couldn't possibly leave you on good terms, could I?

That being said...

* * *

Survival situations are not always as gritty as one might assume. When the group of survivors finds a shelter, a supply of water, food and ammo, and when the group settles in their life of highly reduced luxury, they slowly begin to come with the situation. They get used to the routine, waking up early, exercising, keeping a look-out and working hard until the wee hours of the night. And because humans are creatures of habit, they soon accept this way of life. And luckily for the REDs, their way of life was quite satisfactory.

Up until that day.

There was only one thing the Medic truly hated in life. He could get used to waking up early after a sleepless night. Eating small portions of food actually did him good, so he didn't complain. He could handle any and every idiot that he had to heal. Deep inside, the sense of superiority satisfied him in an almost perverse way. Nothing could peeve the Medic to the point where he couldn't even tolerate it.

But there was one thing, one thing he couldn't stand.

Children.

The early-morning sun shone out of the wooden blinds and fell on the Medic's bed in golden streaks. The sunbeams fell over the doctor's stubble, some stretching over his eyes. This did not wake him up. His head was resting on the mattress, and he curled himself up a large pillow he embraced with his hands and legs. He mumbled something into it, a wide smile stretched across his relaxed face.

_"Meine Liebe, hör auf damit!" _he mumbled through a girlish giggle,_ "Wir sind auf einer Beerdigung, bitte zeigen Sie etwas Respekt!"_

He tightened his pillow against himself and groaned from the back of his throat.

_"Okay, aber bekommen in den Sarg," _he said sleepily, while showering the pillow with quick kisses.

The Heavy knocked against the door loudly, which made the Medic move away from his pillow in haste. For a brief second, he stared at the wood paneling on the ceiling. The room appeared to be falling around him. He clasped his head in his hands and moaned in agony as he realized that the dream was just a dream.

Make that two things he absolutely despised; children, and the feeling a person would get as they realized that the beautiful dream they had wasn't real. And the Medic was supposed to endure both of those despicable things in the same morning. What a happy day this would be!

The Heavy slam opened the door, which just made the Medic twitch more vigorously. The doctor blinked heavily, trying to clear his vision. With a quick grab, he took his glasses from his nightstand and placed them upon his nose. He could just about make out the Heavy's smiling face.

"Is waking up time, Doctor!"

The Medic groaned once again. "Vat time is it?"

"Almost six. Leetle doctor overslept…again."

The Medic looked up and plopped his body back on the hard mattress. He stretched his arms out, looking almost like the Infected they nailed to a cross a while ago. He whined;

"I vas having zhe most beautiful dream… it vas zhe time before zhe New Plague. Natasha vas zhere…" He stopped himself mid-sentence, not wanting to give too much away. "Anyvay," he sighed and looked at the Russian. His nose wrinkled upwards as he sniffed the air. It smelt awfully sweet. The doctor's mouth began to water. "Who is making breakfast?"

"Little Sarah." The Heavy pointed downwards, towards the kitchen. "Some are already eating."

The Heavy noticed the almost pained look on Medic's face when he heard the girl's name. He slowly rose up from his bed, facing away from the Heavy.

"I am not hungry," he lied.

"Look, doctor," the Russian sighed. "I know you do not like keeds. Heavy did not like them either. But right now, Sarah is team. And we only make good team if we respect team. Understand?" He asked, hoping that the Medic would say that he did. The doctor huffed. With no intention to move from the side of his bed, he stared at the discarded pillow between his feet, which were gingerly placed on the floor. The Heavy sighed and walked up to him.

"You weel have to get used to keeds."

"I told you, Heavy, I am never having children!"

"Have children or not," Heavy said sternly, crossing his arms, "Doctor must come down. Either you get dressed and come for breakfast, or Heavy weel have to carry you… and your new girlfriend," he said, pointing at the pillow.

The Medic huffed.

"Fine." He stood up hastily, listening to the Heavy's loud footsteps as he left the room. "Just give me ten minutes."

"In motherland, people were shot after ten minutes of waiting," Heavy said, leaning against the door frame. The doctor blinked at him.

"…two minutes?"

"Is better."

The giant closed the door shut.

* * *

The Medic ran downstairs, fixing the creases on his shirt. Soon he was greeted with clattering of plates, chattering of his early-rising teammates, child-like humming and an enormous stack of pancakes. Upon seeing the mountain of deliciousness that made his stomach rumble, the Medic completely forgot that this was made by an obnoxious ten-year-old.

"_Gute Morgen_," he said politely, though his little greeting sounded forced, as he rolled up his sleeves and sat at the table.

"Somebody's up late," said the Engineer, never before saying those words before eight a.m. The Medic shrugged, grabbing a fork and stacking a few pancakes on a plate. The Scout didn't bother with utensils, he rolled up the pancakes and put them into his mouth like hot-dogs.

"Aw mhn!" He exclaimed before swallowing the delectable pastry. "These are like, so good!"

"Thanks!" Sarah exclaimed, putting more food on the table. "I've been workin' on 'em since four in the mornin'. Didn' get any sleep at all!"

The group noticed her eye twitch. The girl turned to the Sniper, placing yet another pancake on his plate. The man didn't look at her, too focused on his coffee.

"I didn't find any squirrels fer breakfast," she said with a smirk, "but I figured you didn' mind pancakes, uncle Snipes."

"Ya figured correctly," he said, not looking up.

Through all the chatter, sipping and the scratching of utensils, Irene could make out every work Sarah had said to the Sniper. She narrowed her eyes. Dell looked up from his plate, a piece of pancake still hanging from his mouth.

"Ah see those two are on uncle terms…" she said through her teeth. "It's bad enough she had to spend three days worth of flour and eggs for this meal, now she's givin' him everything?!"

The fork in her hand was dangerously close to breaking. Dell smiled at her and grabbed her shoulder, trying to save the tool. Irene shook her head.

"It's okay, Irene. I honestly don't know why ya hate the guy so much."

"He just…" She stiffened her lip and tapped her foot before she spoke, almost a whisper. "He just don't seem right, ya know?"

"Well…" Dell shrugged, "That's Stretch fer ya. I mean, he ain't right, but he ain't too bad, either."

"I… I hope so."

Irene continued to scratch her plate with the tip of her fork, not looking away from the marksman her daughter was smiling at. She had her eyes fixed on him, like a harpoon. The Sniper did not notice this.

The marksman wasn't noticing a lot of things lately. Ever since he saw the magazine, he was thinking about her. That lovely little thing nobody needed to know about. He didn't notice when the Medic politely shooed Sarah away, he didn't notice the Demoman and the Soldier having a heated debate. He noticed that the Spy and Irene were talking about something- or someone- but he didn't feel like listening in on them. He stared blankly into his plate, thinking about something he heard from a friend a long time ago. He inhaled, and immediately the sweet harmony of smells joined together. The slightly burnt crust of the pancake, the bitterness of the chocolate, the sweetness of the smuggled marmalade, the smell was overwhelming.

* * *

_"…breakfast!"_

_Mundy awoke only to see this strange girl looking at him with her narrow green eyes. He stretched his arm out and placed it on his forehead. The girl didn't take her eyes off him._

_"I'm sorry, what?" He asked in his raspy voice._

_"I said you smell like breakfast! I couldn't figure it out before, but now I did!"_

_Mundy raised his eyebrow at her. "You ain't a cannibal by any chance, are you Sheila?"_

_The girl laughed. "Hell no!"_

_"Good," Mundy said with a sigh of relief. "How long have you been sniffin' me?"_

_"A while. Couldn't sleep. Didja know you snore?" She asked, batting her long eyelashes. Mundy tried to stretch but he could only move so much in this tiny, makeshift bed in the back of his van. He spoke while he tried to elongate his spine._

_"Noice, Sheila. Because that isn't creepy at all."_

_The girl placed her head on his bare chest, twirling her finger around the hairs that grew out of it. Mundy stroked her hair, running his fingers through a forest of cherry red._

_"So wotcha mean, I smell like breakfast?" He asked, as he began to think about the subject. She clucked her tongue and looked up._

_"I was thinkin'… a while ago I tried on your hat. And it smelt like burnt toast."_

_"Wos that when you were mimicking moi accent?"_

_"Yes."_

_"You were rubbish at that."_

_"Shut up. Anyway," she slapped the palm of her hand against his chest, a gesture telling him to concentrate, "There was something more to it. At first I thought it was coconut, but there was something a bit more earthy… like coffee… baked bread… sweat and freshly-printed newspapers… ya know? And all that topped off with that weird… baked skin scent a person gets after being in the sun a lot. Ya know… Breakfast! Or should I say, morning." _

_Mundy thought about the unexpected description of his fragrance and looked into her large, green eyes._

_"Huh."_

_The girl smiled, knowing that he was impressed with this._

_"Damn right, 'huh'."_

_Her head jolted up, a big smile spreading across her cheeks._

_"Mundy, what do I smell like?"_

_The man looked at her with a shit-eating grin._

_"Ya smell loike shit."_

_"Thanks. Thanks a lot."_

_The girl smacked his chest once more and tried to get up from the bed, broken from last night. Just as she threw away the covers, she felt the man's body against hers, squeezing her, restraining her. She tried to kick herself away, but he continued to grasp her._

_"Lemme go, knucklehead!" She said half-angrily. She could only hear him laughing for a while._

_"Come on, Sheila, ya know I didn't mean it-Oi!"_

_The girl began kicking again, flailing her arms around to make some space. He responded by clutching her tightly, running his fingers down her waist. At this point she didn't care about getting away from him; she was just trying to get out of his grip, not to give him the satisfaction of restraining her._

_"Come on, Sheila; the more you struggle, the more I squeeze. I'm loike an anaconda."_

_The girl had to comply before the air escaped her lungs completely. The man really was like an anaconda. In more ways than one, she mused._

_"Fine," she exhaled stubbornly and fell by his side, completely limp. "But if you say I smell like crap again, I'm getting up!"_

_"Naw, come on!"_

_"So what'll it be, then?" She asked, staring deep into his eyes. The man pondered the question briefly, not having a prepared answer like she did. He bit the inside of his cheek until his eyes widened._

_"Ya know what, ya smell loike the swamp."_

_"… well, it's a step up, but I'm still miffed."_

_"No, no, no, hear me ou- miffed?" He stressed the word. "Croikey, where'd ya get that word from? Anyway," he shook his head and returned to the topic at hand, "The swamp? Ya never been to the swamp? Naw, of course ya didn't. Otherwise, you wouldn't be so… miffed," he said the last word with a smug grin. The girl shook her head and rolled her eyes._

_"Ya ever been to a swamp? It's bleedin' beau'iful. Well, it's all pretty damp, so the first thing ya smell is moist wood. Mind you, it's freezing cold in the swamps, though you wouldn't know it. And then you have the actual water. And I'm not talking 'bout that common river stuff, either. It's loike… water and moss and the fresh breeze streamin' across yer face… It ain't intrusive, and is quite pleasant… loike freshly cut grass. But sloightly musky, loike a strong, rich, earthy smell… but ya don't foind it rich and too abrasive 'cus it's natural."_

_He turned to the girl after completing his speech. She sighed._

_"Well… when ya put it that way…" She moved a patch of hair off her eye and turned to the side, covering her bare chest with a thin cover. "I didn't know you were such a romantic."_

_"Nah, I ain't a romantic," he said, rummaging the base of the bed, looking for a pack of smokes. "It's just… you. It's loike… you make me..." He vaguely gestured to his body with a flick of the wrist._

_The girl smiled._

_"So you're basically saying… wait, what the heck are you saying?" She asked through a giggle._

_"I'm sayin' yer amazing... Cigarette?" He asked, presenting her with the box after he placed one thin cylinder filled with tangy tobacco between his lips. The girl rose her hand up and shook her head. The marksman shrugged._

_"Well… yer _almost_ amazin'."_

* * *

The daydream was interrupted by a scream coming from the living room. The Sniper quickly shook his head and went back into this grim reality. The group was standing near the window, staring into the fields in a manner lambs look at a slaughterhouse; they are aware of its ominous presence, but they are not aware that it might mean their doom. The Sniper looked at the Scout, hastily explaining something he had seen. He must have gone surveying the area during the Sniper's admittedly long trip into the past. The boy was sweating, speaking loudly, and his sentences were interrupted by bursts of air coming from his lungs, inhaling and exhaling unevenly.

"I've seen 'em! There's like a thousand of 'em!" He gasped, pulling at the hem of his tattered shirt. "I couldn't do nothin', they were too far away! I think… I-I think they're gonna get here in twenty minutes."

"A thousand?!" The Soldier asked, jolting. "What kind of horde is that?!"

"The biggest one yet!" The Engineer said, turning up the volume on the television set. The green bars representing the volume went up and higher until the group settled down and the almost deafening sound filled the sanctuary. In the news, the anchor hurriedly explained the current courses of the hordes.

_"The new hordes of the Infected are spreading across the west, making their way towards Pennsylvania and New York. The residents of these areas are advised to stay in their homes, and-."_

"New York?" The Scout grabbed his head. "That's close to Boston! My- my Ma's there… Those bastards are gonna hurt my Ma!"

The boy ran outside in panic, not being able to see the Soldier grabbing the Engineer by the collar and pull him upwards. He was angry, shouting in a desperate tone.

"This was supposed to be safe! How is this safe?! We're out of the frying pan and into the goddamn Inferno!" He shouted, his eyes releasing flames and daggers. The Texan pushed the patriot off him.

"Ah did not send us here! And yellin' at each other ain't gonna help that much!"

"Well neither is sitting here!"

He pushed away the Texan and grabbed his rocket launcher, sitting in the corner of the room. He ran towards the door and kicked them open, and at that moment, a dreadful sigh came over his face, he felt the air that smelt of putrid flesh, earth and death. He heard the men behind him grab their weapons and stand behind him. The Scout sprinted towards the crowd of the Infected, now looking like fire ants walking in disarray, returning to their colony. The sky was gray, filled with grimy-looking clouds. They knew that this battle wasn't going to end well. But for which side?

The Soldier raised up his helmet, his icy-blue eyes shifting across the field. He took a deep breath and growled through his teeth.

"Let's show this low-life scum what we survivors are made of."

* * *

The horde had already walked past the two main sentries. Some were killed, but the machines were trampled by these creatures, who knew not of God or mercy. A thousand wasn't even close to their number. There were more of them. They didn't come in waves; they arrived in one formidable group. They groaned and growled while the purple flesh peeled off their cheeks. They were slow, dragging their feet across the yellowed grass. They took their precious time getting there. But once they got there, hell ensued. Or rather, hell would ensue, unless the men did something about it.

The survival group ran up to the Scout, standing in the wind. The crown of Infected was approaching them; the creatures were only several feet away. A grim look plastered on his face, the Scout clenched his Scattergun, determined to kill every single one of these bastards if it meant that his mother would be safe, safe from these death bringers for at least one more day.

The group was there, each clutching their weapon. The Soldier placed his hand on the young Bostonian's shoulder, but the boy didn't move. He looked straight at the crowd and the patriot realized that the boy was too determined to listen to him. The Soldier nodded and turned to the crowd. He tilted his helmet up.

"Listen up, maggots!"

He marched from side to side, standing straight up and proud, like an antiquarian statue of a God. The men watched him, occasionally looking at the unholy horde behind the man. They all wanted them dead, they wanted to dance in their blood.

"What you see out there is everything wrong with the world today. All of your loved ones, all of your friends will fall victim to these monstrosities unless we do something about it! These brainless creatures do not resemble humans, even if they once were human. These creatures… are not to be considered living! You have done this many times, but this time, its life and death!" He clenched his fist tightly. "You die today, you die honorably, and you will dine with the best of heroes! Don't fear death, privates! Fear life… with those… things."

The creatures were coming closer and closer still. Irene checked to see if her chainsaw was working. A slight smile appeared across her face as it began to buzz and rotate at maximum speed.

"Now go out there and make me proud, men! For freedom!"

The creatures were thirty feet away.

"For life!"

Twenty-five feet.

"For glory!"

Twenty feet.

**"For Harvest!"**

A primal shriek escaped the Bostonian's mouth as he charged forward, before anyone else did. The men soon followed, each wielding their weapon. The Medic ran behind them, his Medi-gun ready and fully charged.

It was the hardest battle the team ever had to undergo. With no time to build or plan, the fighting was reduced not to a battle of tactics and wits, but a battle of brawn. Blood of the infected was shed in gallons, the once able, conscious bodies were torn asunder, shot and burned. The Pyro's glorious flames cleared the path, for mere seconds. The burned Infected would cower before the fiery magnificence, running mindlessly until the fire turned their putrid bodies into ashes, until they fell dead on the dusty ground. The dead Infected would soon be replaced by another horde, even more ferocious than those who came before them. Bloodlust could be tasted in the air, the almost fanatical devotion to the sanctuary seeped from every man, woman and child. The Medic spread the healing beams of his Medi-gun over the few men, battling by his side. This was no time to take care of small wounds. The Infected mostly attacked the mercenaries with their bare hands, only some wielding a crowbar or a knife. When one was cut, he did not have time to look down at the wound. They knew; one look away from the heated battle, and you would be dead. They would continue to fight, spreading a rain of bullets on one side, always standing with one other man, back-to-back. They toppled the Infected until their legs begged for a break, until their hands ached due to the heavy weapons in their hands. Just as a veil of darkness began to shroud them, the Medic would heal them, quickly and effectively. And then the men would fight all over again.

When the Medi-gun was fully charged, the Medic would point it at the Heavy. As the red energy surged through the Russian's flesh, he would become vigorous, powerful, and perhaps more mindless than any other Infected on that field. His Sasha showered the cowards with bullets, piercing the weak flesh. The creatures would fall onto piles of death and pungency, travelling through the air and making the men ill. They mustn't have minded the smell and the gruesome sight, not when every second mattered. Soon, the powering energy would melt away, leaving the Medic and the Russian alone, in a sea of Infected. And the Infected seemed to multiply, unlike the team's supply of bullets.

Another back was stabbed, another throat was slit. Another gut punctured by Irene's swift blade, and taken out quickly, just quickly enough to see the life leave the Infected's already lifeless eyes. Her husband wasn't able to construct another sentry, his shotgun was fiery hot, reloading it burned his fingers, but nothing burned more than his desire to end the battle once and for all. By his side stood the Sniper, shoving a knife into an Infected's face and slitting it from the forehead to the lower lip. The disfigured, blind creatures would touch their cold blood in despair, panic. The Sniper then switched to his SMG, tossing the gun over to Sarah. She would stab the Infected into the thighs, disabling them to move. A bullet flew from her Beretta, whose trigger she squeezed, not pulled. She would not be useless anymore. Every single one of those shots was a bullseye. But it wasn't enough.

Bombs burst in the distance, more Infected were swiped off their feet. A couple of them crawled towards the men, dragging their legless torsos across the field, one arm in front of another. But as soon as they fell, they would be done-for. They would either be trampled over on shot. These creatures were not clever creatures, but they were strong. They had strength in numbers. And those numbers kept multiplying.

The group fought for minutes, hours, days… Bombs and grenades burst around them until they were all gone. Irene's once swift blade had begun to jitter and slow down. The Heavy's weapon was out of bullets, and he had to use his strong fists, stooping down to the Infected's level. At one point, the group was surrounded. It appeared all was lost.

"What do we do?" Sarah asked, shooting another Infected that came close. It fell down with a deafening screech.

The Soldier's eyes widened and he turned to the Spy.

"Son," he began, listening to the blades cutting raw flesh and arteries bursting; "I need your help. I'm going to have to… use a different tactic."

"No…" the Spy whispered. "There must be another way!"

"Listen to me, maggot! Your surrendering ways are not welcome here! I know for a fact-!" He squatted to avoid a swishing razor-blade, and shot an Infected in the stomach. He turned to the Spy again; "I know for a fact that the Demoman has one more grenade! I'll tell him to fire it where the Infected line is thinnest! That's where you come in!"

No words were needed. The Spy knew exactly what he had to do. He saluted the Soldier, one hand on his cigarette case.

"Godspeed," he said, taking out one cigarette.

A red grenade flew across the RED's heads. The Infected in the front, closest to the base were annihilated. The ones in the back could see the man responsible; a black Scot, running away, more east.

"Where's he going?" The Engineer asked, reloading his shotgun. At one point, he realized that it didn't matter. "Follow him!"

The group ran, but somehow, the Infected avoided them. They ran after the Scot. They watched his back while he was running, unaware that there was an identical one, secured in the middle of the group. The chase went on for some time, over the small hills. The Scout, still furious about the Infected, ran beside them, shooting them in the face. Some turned to him, attacking him, but the Bostonian knew better than to let them defeat him. By the time he was done with them, he looked at the Scot, still running. He was followed by a large horde of the surviving Infected. They were far out of the Bostonian's reach.

The creatures continued to hound the man, until he disappeared into thin air. The Infected stopped, growling and screeching in anger and confusion. They looked around them to see where he could have gone. By the time they turned around, they saw him; not the Scot, but the Soldier. He clenched his fists, prepared for their attack. His hand was wrapped around a grenade. He could feel the rush of wind as the Infected ran towards him. Now they were inches away.

The patriot placed his thumb on the pin, feeling incredibly cold under his skin. He had to do this; for his friends, for his mankind…

_For Harvest!_

The rest of the survivors watched the grand explosion. The smoke stayed long after the fire. In shock, the team dropped their weapons. The Infected were gone for now, but so was their leader. That is the moment when they realized that this wasn't a game. This wasn't some kind of a vacation; this was real, real grit and blood! The smell of death was in the air. Irene gasped and buried her head into Dell's shoulder. He looked at the debris, speechless. And somewhere, beyond the explosion, there was a man, crawling away from the place of impact. The Sniper immediately recognized the silhouette. He called out to him, with worry in his tone.

"Spook!"

Not even the Scout could run as fast as the marksman did at that point. He found the Spy on the ground, facing the dirt. The Sniper flipped him over with a grunt, looking at his blood-filled balaclava. He noticed that he was holding a helmet in his gloved hands; the Soldier's helmet. He coughed.

"Spook?" The Sniper leaned closer to him, trying to hear him. "Spook, say something!"

"I'll… I'll be alright," Spy said, blinking heavily. "Is the Soldier…?"

The Sniper nodded with a tear in his eye, relieved that only one man fell victim to this chaos of a battle. He looked towards the land, as black as coal. There was not a trace of him left. The Spy slowly lifted up the helmet, just as he saw the Medic running towards him.

"I think…" He took a deep breath, still exhausted. "I think the least we can give him is a proper burial."

* * *

The hole was tiny, the helmet chucked in with little care. A small, wooden cross was placed by it, nothing written on it yet. The men stood by the hole, a pathetic sight indeed. All tired, wounded and hungry, they stared at this memorial for the man who saved their lives by sacrificing his. The funeral was dismal, but deep down; they knew that the Soldier would have liked it. He always hated wasting time and space. A funeral such as this one was somehow just right for him. The Engineer watched the men toss a small piece of dirt into the hole, covering the helmet. The tinkerer cleared his throat and crossed his fingers. His gaze directed at his shoes, he began the speech. He was afraid to look at the spectators. He was afraid of breaking down into tears.

"What can we say about the man we celebrate today?" He started in a hollow tone.

"He was a good man, a strong man. He put his homeland before everything else. We could have considered him heartless at times, but really, he was just doing what was best for the team."

Irene wiped off a tear from her cheek. The Spy placed his hand over her shoulder.

"He loved discipline; he loved fighting… more than any man I ever knew… I think we can all take comfort in the fact that he died, doing what he loved. He pursued many endeavors diligently, always rose up to the challenge. He was an inspiration; he made us what we are today. There were times… there were times when we thought that the whole thing was hopeless… and he was always there, always there to prove us wrong. Without his leadership… without him… we would have never gotten this far."

He picked up a shovel, the Soldier's shovel, and saluted the hollow void.

"Godspeed, partner. Godspeed."

The dirt was tossed over the helmet, and it was covered quickly. He crossed his heart and turned on the ball of his foot. Everyone made their way back, sniffing and looking down. All except one girl.

She moved to the cross. Deep down, she knew that something was missing. Something he would have probably wanted. She kneeled down, and the mercenaries turned their heads.

A bell chiming in the wind. A single swallow up in a tree. A tune played on a piece of glass. That is roughly what her voice sounded like.

_"Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,  
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"_

Irene wanted to stop Sarah but decided against it. The men listened to her song, staring without her even noticing.

_"__Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,  
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?__"_

Sarah gingerly placed her hand on the ground, getting the dirt in between his fingers.

_"__And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,  
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there._

_O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave  
O'er the land of the free...__"_

She took a deep breath and smiled.

_"__And the home of the brave...__"_

With that, the girl stood up and dusted off her shirt. Saluting, she turned around and walked towards the men. The cold wind blew her dirtied locks away from her face. This was the cold, menacing wind of change.

* * *

The Engineer walked up to the Demoman, nursing on his half-empty bottle of Scrumpy. It was extremely cold inside the house. Not a voice was heard. When the Engineer spoke to the Scot, the silence was broken a little too abruptly.

"Hey…" He began, his hands tucked in his pockets. "How're ya holdin' up? I know he's been your friend and all…"

The Demoman opened his eye and laughed.

"Wotcha goin' on about? We should be celebratin'!"

The Engineer recoiled in shock.

"Eye mean, we got the bastards, didn' we?"

"But… The Soldier… I thought you would be…!"

"Oh, the Soldier?" The Scot took another swig. "He was the bleedin' best! I can't wait until I see 'im again! I want to congratulate the lad!"

The Engineer opened his mouth to speak but quickly shut them. An odd, eerie sensation flew over his nerves and his body shook. He felt as though he had been punched in the heart.

The Demoman didn't realize. Or, rather, his mind kept him from realizing, in order to keep the little sanity he had left in him.

"I mean," he continued, "The man deserves a bloody medal and a fucking strong drink!"

The Engineer put his hand on the Demoman's shoulder, unable to say anything. He nodded slowly.

"He does."

His stomach turned. "He really does."


	13. The Dreams

**A/N: **Inspired by an episode of M.A.S.H. I apologize for the overuse of the _italics _and the introduction. I couldn't help myself.

* * *

Maybe it was the shock after the battle that went on a couple of days before. Maybe they were simply too old to begin with. But one thing was unarguable; one of the chickens had stopped laying eggs. For days the lady of the house tried to feed it, to fatten it up, but after four days of fattening it up, it was clear that her efforts were futile. What they had now was a useless chicken, horrible to keep around but perfect to roast.

The delicious, plump-breasted chicken was strutting around its coop, occasionally pecking at a couple of seeds scattered across the ground. The smell of dry hay and chicken fecal matter was unpleasant, to say the least. The acrid smell filled the noses of the two mercenaries that were standing behind a tree stump, looking at the convict. They knew the chicken's fate, the end of its life. But one question remained: who will take the position of the executioner?

The Scout and the Sniper both stared at the Pyro's axe in the Scout's hands. Soon it will be presented to Sniper. Then it will be presented back to the Scout. Then back to Sniper. This has been going on for a while.

It was strange. Men who were used to blood and spilling guts on daily bases were queasy when it came to chopping heads off small chickens. Meanwhile, the creature clucked, bobbing its head as it walked. The two men were still bickering.

"You do it!" Cried the Scout.

"Nah, you do it!" The Sniper responded, handing over the axe. The Bostonian quickly shoved it back into the Sniper's hands. The Sniper returned the favor with equal haste.

"What's the deal, man? Ya deal with freakin' animals all the time!"

"Yes, but I never chopped their heads off."

"Don't tell me you're scared! Ya shoot people in the eyes, for God's sake!"

The Sniper winced. "Maybe, but I don't cut their 'eads clear off. I mean, when I shoot 'em, their heads don't fall off, and they don't run around the base with nothin' on their shoulders, blood squirting outta their necks-!"

"Ew!" The Scout stuck his tongue out, suddenly looking paler than before. He presented the Sniper back with the axe. "Well I ain't doin' it either! I can't, chickens freak me out!"

The Sniper raised his eyebrow, half-mockingly. "Those lil' things freak you out, huh?"

"No!" The boy crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. "Well… maybe. But that's justified! I mean, what are those things? They ain't birds, 'cuz they can't fly… They ain't mammals… They just run around, laying eggs and staring at you with them big, dead eyes, like a doll's eyes!"

"Uh-huh. Well, ya know how ya need to conquer your fears…" The Sniper raised the axe up at the Scout, but the boy flinched and moved away before the marksman could shove it in his arms.

Meanwhile, the Spy was standing near them, smoking while smirking at their fear of poultry extermination. His blood-stained, torn-up jacked was hanging over his shoulder, exposing his unusually white shirt. Those pesky things clucked and ran around him, but he did not mind them too much. He would occasionally shoo one away, swaying his foot in mid-air. His eyes were focused on the two mercenaries, treating the axe as if it were a hot potato. He snorted.

"You know, bickering isn't going to make your next victim any deader."

"Up yours, Spook. We're tryin' to figure this out."

The emissary rolled his eyes, dusting off some imaginary dust off his suit. "Why don't you flip a coin?" He asked with more than a hint of venom in his tone. The Scout narrowed his eyes at the suited man, tactically avoiding a chicken that came clucking his way.

"Ya know," he swiftly moved his leg away when one of the hens began running close to him; "Irene could've put you in charge of this, ya know? Look atcha, standin' there; thinkin' you're the freakin' king of everything just because you don't hafta do nothin'!"

"There are certain jobs that I am overqualified for. And Irene is fully aware of that."

The Scout frowned for a while before a mischievous grin appeared across his face. He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head.

"That ain't it, man." He lifted his head up from the dusty, light-brown soil he was standing on. His icy-blue eyes connected with the Spy's as he ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Irene wants to like…" he chuckled shortly, "Ya know…"

The Spy threw the burning cigarette on the dust and stomped it out, half-disgusted that his feet had to be on the ground. The jacked swayed while he approached the Scout, one of his hands behind his back. He and the boy were now about a foot away.

"What exactly are you implying?" He asked, taking a slightly intimidating stance. The Scout turned his head from one side to another and took a single step towards the Frenchman. He pressed his index finger against his shirt, pressing it every time he said a single word in order to emphasize it.

"Irene. Wants. To. Screw."

The Spy grabbed the boy's finger, almost breaking it.

"You are making even less sense than usually. I did not think that was possible. Either way," he released the finger and left the boy to shake it, in order to get the feeling back. The Spy continued; "Show the woman some respect. Just because we're in an apocalypse does not mean that we're savages."

"Yeah, bloke, show some respect!" Said the Sniper, rolling the handle of the axe in his hands. The Scout scoffed.

"Yeah, whatever. You're just mad that Irene's taking your place as the Spy's private bitch!" The boy pointed at the Spy behind him with his thumb, only to quickly put it away when he saw the sharp axe glisten in the palm of the Sniper's hand.

"Anywho," the Scout cleared his throat, "Because Irene wants to bang you, you are liberated from all the chores 'round here."

"Scout, that is ridiculous. The lady of the house is a respectful woman, and-"

"Ohohohohoh! Respectful, he says!" The Scout rose his hands up. "Yo, knucklehead, is this respectful?"

The Spy narrowed his eyes. "What are you-?"

The Scout spun around, wrapping his hands around the emissary. The sound that came out of his mouth resembled a very lady-like moan. It petrified the Spy and amused the Sniper to such an extent that he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing.

_"Oooooh, Spah!"_ The boy spun around the suited man, tossing back his head and talking in a very high-pitched voice while trying to portray a southern belle's accent.

_"Ooooh, Spah, you're so strong and smaht and chaaaaaa'ming."_

"Scout, if you do not let go of me, I will-!"

The boy did let go, but the general twirling and mimicking stayed intact.

_"Oh Spy, Ah've nevah been with a Frenchman before… is it true what they say?"_ He placed his palm on his chest and batted his eyelashes. One could almost hear the short hairs smack against each other. The Spy averted his eyes to the marksman, flinching and wincing while he tried not to laugh too hard.

"Scout, I recommend you stop."

The boy flailed his hands up into the air.

_"Oh, Spah!"_ The Bostonian fell on the tree stump, facing the mercenaries. The impact was loud, and made the chickens disperse instantaneously.

_"Oh Spah… take me!"_

"The Spoi's private bitch, huh?" The marksman clicked his tongue several times as the Scout rolled around in his pretend-orgasmic state.

_"Oooooh, Spah! Oh, Spah, yes! Yes! Great balls of fiyah! Stars and stripes forever! Oh, Spah, yes!"_

The two men stopped looking at the boy for a second, their faces stiff. A smile came over the Spy's face, while the Sniper's laughter evaporated completely.

_"Ooooh, Spah! No man has evah satisfied me like ya before!"_ The Scout said, twitching.

"Uh, kid?" The Sniper began, but the Scout was too caught up in his act to listen.

_"Ah! Ah, yes, Spah! Nyeeeees! Engie nevah did it this good, dah'ling! Nyeeees! Engie nevah-!"_

The Bostonian's gaze fell on a pair of work boots. The angle was odd; they were completely upside-down. But the more he moved up, the more he saw; the dark trousers, the ruffled shirt, the fuming face all topped with thick, blonde hair tied up into a bun. The Bostonian squirmed, this time with discomfort.

"Uh… hi, Irene."

The woman looked at the fat, plump chicken clucking in the corner. She huffed at the Sniper.

"It is still not dead?" She grabbed the axe from the marksman, spewing venom with her eyes. With one, swift movement, she grabbed the chicken and faced the Scout.

"Get off that trunk, boy, or I'll chop your head off, too."

The boy quickly rose up, running behind the Sniper. The woman placed the chicken on the wood, aligning the edge of the axe with its neck. As she looked at the Spy, the frown on her face completely vanished.

"Good mornin', Spy. Ain't it a beautiful day today?" She asked as she lowered the axe with a _clip_. Some blood squirted out of the chicken and on her face. As the Spy nodded, she pushed the head away with the side of the tool. The turned twice before it settled on the ground, its lifeless eyes popping out of its head and its beak slightly open. The Sniper wasn't terrified of the head; he was terrified with the grace and swiftness it was chopped off with. Irene took the headless chicken between her hands and walked away.

The men looked at her for a long time.

"She's uh… she's somethin', alright," the marksman said, shifting on the balls of his feet.

* * *

The sorrow that came after the Soldier's death was odd. It wasn't ever-present; it came and went in waves, tides of absolute misery. At those times, nobody spoke. They would sit around the television set, playing the same old things over and over again. They wouldn't even move. They looked at the images that played, but they did not watch them, they did not realize that they were there. It was extremely cold inside the house. They didn't want to waste firewood until later in the winter.

The scent of roast chicken flew across the room, the smell of that night's dinner. Nobody was hungry, the poultry remained uneaten, merely picked at and left behind. It was now a sad hunk of stringy flesh, tomorrow's cold, flavorless breakfast.

Emily Payne was on-screen. She was still talking about the newest hordes of the Infected, spreading east.

_"But don't you worry, darlings. I know it's hard, but you have to believe that you're safe. Until then…" _she clasped her hands together, _"Goodnight, darlings. Sleep tight."_

She kissed her palm and blew the kiss away, before the national anthem began to play. It was so late, and they did not even realize it. Suddenly, the marksman stretched in his chair.

"That thing about sleeping is the smartest thing she said all day," he said, getting up from the sofa and onto his feet. "I'm off to bed. Goodnight."

He walked out of the house, into his van. The Spy, Medic and Scout retired to their room, muttering goodnights. The Bostonian looked at the Demoman, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"Ya goin' to bed?" He asked.

"Nah," the Scot waved his hand, shaking his head. "I'm on look-out with Engie, Heavy and the Soldier."

The Scout smiled weakly as the Demoman said that last words.

_…and the Soldier._

Poor guy, he mused. He still didn't know. He still couldn't get it.

The Scout fell asleep that night, thinking about death.

* * *

_Everything was dark. And cold. Weeds and greasy moss were flowing everywhere around him. He tried to push them away, but they were getting stuck to his sneakers, stuck to his body. He couldn't breathe, he could barely move. The water restrained him as he swam, determined to find something he had been looking for._

_But what was he looking for again?_

_His head was spinning; blood from his wounds flew around him like a thick, red cloud. It swarmed his face; it was getting dark, too dark to see. His body felt like a balloon, rising upwards even though he wanted to go deeper, deeper into the abyss._

_Why was he doing this? Who was he saving?_

_Either way, he found it. He didn't know what it was, but he knew damn well he had to save it. A red piece of fabric swayed in the murky water, and he grabbed it with his bandaged hands. He wanted to bring it up to the surface, but it was too heavy, heavier than the lead slowly surrounding his feet. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out, only bursts of air that came out of his mouth, reminding him that he needed precious oxygen._

_A grim apparition came over the fabric. A large, gray creature moved its bony hand over the cloth, smothering it._

_Don't let anyone tell you that bones are porcelain. Don't let them tell you that they are pearly white. Bones are the most disgusting thing the Scout ever had to see. They were yellow, yellow and rotten. Dark in bits, black as ink. No. These bones were not beautiful, they brought nothing but sorrow._

_The creature's head was looking at the Scout, pulling at his torn red shirt. The boy couldn't take it anymore. He needed air. The empty gaps where the creature's eyes were supposed to be stared at him, it opened its mouth. Thousands upon thousands of weevils came swimming out, attacking the Scout's face. The blood that came out of them, out of their mouths as they gnawed at his skin, was surreal, surrounding his face like a horrible, magnificent dream._

_He came out, out for air, out for freedom, out for life._

_He poked his head out of the water, not being able to retrieve the red piece of cloth._

_On the outside… the horror._

_With a leap, the boy jumped out of the river. The trees around him bent under a red force, engulfing them. It was hotter than hell and twice as wide. A child's laughter was heard outside of his panicked brain, the inside of him was screaming, burning. The flames went down his spine, his hair was burnt off. He was becoming a true monster, the same monster that took away the cloth._

_He couldn't even breather at this point. He ran across the field, into the fire. He felt as if venom was dripping from his eyes, mixed with tears and blood. He was in such pain, running around the enchanted forest of his mind. Bats flew from his skull, singing their angelic song of screeches and batting their wings. The fire spread, and so did the insanity._

_It spread until it enclosed him in a cocoon. He was blind, but could see. He was deaf, but he heard every tune perfectly. He was dead._

_And yet, he never felt so alive._

* * *

The Scout awoke, feeling as if the blanket covering him was a mangled corpse. He pushed it off him, shivering and twisting in pain. He felt his face; everything was alright.

He hoped that he wasn't the only one who had to endure these nightmares tonight.

Luckily, he wasn't.

* * *

_The water was cold and it rushed at Mundy's face at a ridiculous speed. As the liquid hit him, the Australian gasped, awakening from his state of unconsciousness. His vision was blurry, deep, bright spots of light blinked and trembled in front of his eyes. They were becoming lighter, and soon became transparent._

_And the room he was in was now clear; slightly shaky, but completely clear. It was dark, one mattress laying on the floor to represent a bed. The wall it was pressed up against was covered in mildew, and had begun to crack in long, uneven lines. They reminded Mundy of lighting. The corners of the room were filled with almost white dust that was very clear to see on the hard-wood floor. There were no windows inside this room, the only source of light was a small flickering light-bulb. It swayed from side to side on a thin cord, lighting the left side of the room, then the right._

_Mundy's head was aching from the light. His throat was dry, even though he had just been doused with ice-cold water. His shirt stuck to his skin, which was slowly developing bumps while he shivered. He tried to rub his murky eyes, to see the room more clearly. A strange force stopped his hand in mid-air. Blinking heavily, he looked at his hand. Its wrist was secured to a rusty pipe. He tugged his hand a couple more times, but it remained securely fastened to the pipeline. It wasn't emitting any heat; the pipe must have been shut down. All energy seemed to leave his body._

_It was at that moment when he realized that he didn't know where he was. He slumped on a wooden stool, one hand tied up and the other hanging limply by his side. It had three small holes around the antecubital fossa, most likely caused by injections of strong sedative. In his daze, he couldn't even notice the small, silver bucket being placed by his side. And it was long before he noticed the man who threw its contents at him._

_"Good morning, Mundy."_

_The man standing before him was a monster; a blonde-haired, thin monster in a lab coat. His mouth was stretched into a sadistic smile, his rosy cheeks burning with what seemed to be contempt. Mundy narrowed his eyes at the man and growled. Instinctively, he tried pulling his hand out to punch him, but was held down by the chain. His other arm was still motionless._

_"I trust you slept well, Sir," the man said, in his unusually high-pitched voice. "Now, I just wanted to let you know, your first mission in this organization is tomorrow. We should get you sobered up."_

_The smile that spread across the man's boyish face made Mundy rage. He wanted to bite it off, to feel this monster's blood under his teeth. He was breathing heavily; his head was getting heavier and his heartbeat faster._

_The monster took out a small lighter and a picture._

_"Just remember, mister Mundy… this is what will happen if you disobey the contract… Oh, and once again, it is a privilege to have you here with us."_

_He showed the picture to Mundy. For just a second, he was calm. For just a second, he was calm, captured by her gaze. Her large, emerald eyes shone like diamonds across the Polaroid, while she crossed her hands onto her lap and smiled coyly. For one second, this was a reassuring gaze, a look of warmth and security. And then it turned into a pained expression, bending and becoming dark with ashes while the flames rose up over the surface of the Polaroid. Her face, her dress, he lovely smile disappeared with one flick of the monster's lighter. As she burnt, it hurt because the monster was so happy for this._

_With a flick of his wrist, the Inferno's physician tossed the picture into the empty bucket, where it continued to burn, silently and slowly, until the girl was no more. Mundy wistfully looked at the flames, growing smaller inside the container. His eyes shot up at the man with a painful rage._

_"I always loved fire…" the man said. "It completed me. Fire is purifying."_

_The man leaned over to the captive, holding the lighter close to his stubble._

_"Fire can remove all filth… all… general inconveniences."_

_Mundy's chest rose with every painful inhale. He despised this man; he would have spat on him if he had the strength. With one gasp, he managed to ask._

_"Why would you do this? The girl did nothing!"_

_"The girl killed my associate!" The man screamed, kicking the bucket, a rough reminder of what would happen to the girl if Mundy didn't comply with the company's demands. After a sigh, he stood up and dusted off his coat. "Now I suspect that you will do as we say from now on. Because, mister Mundy, if you do not, your little friend will not go off scot-free. One twitch in the wrong direction," he preached while he walked across the room, being followed by Mundy's fuming eyes; "One word spoken out of place, one thing that goes wrong will mean her doom. And not only her doom, mister Mundy."_

_Mundy nodded. This was a simple act of courtesy that disgusted him to no end. It seemed to please the doctor, for he smiled like an imbecile and reached out his hand to the new member of the RED team. Mundy frowned at this creature undeserving to be called human. He noticed that his nose was slightly crooked, as crooked as his core._

_"As soon as you step out into the field, the girl and all of her belongings will be returned to their rightful place. Her baggage, her camera, every earthly possession. You just be a good little employee, and we will not let a single hair fall off her pretty little head."_

_The last words were said with a hint of ridicule. Mundy growled at the doctor, who now grabbed his lifeless hand and shook it. Pins and needles surged through the marksman's body as the hand was being squeezed and shook._

_"Oh, and in case I haven't introduced myself," the doctor said through a wicked grin;_

_"My name is Doctor Laszlo."_

* * *

Mundy awoke from that dream in cold sweat. He shook his head, suppressing the urge to throw up, the smell of mildew and lighter fluid burning his nostrils. He walked out of his van, vomiting on the withering grass. His hand was pressed against the van while he heaved.

* * *

_The young boy shivered in the dark basement, folding his arms over his chest. His sister was facing the wall, flinching at every bomb that fell into Marseilles. The boy had stopped convulsing at the noise a while ago. He had gotten used to the sound, to the crying and the screaming. Every now and then, the dangling light bulb above them would flicker and shake, debris falling off the ceiling and on the already dusty basement floor. The grime scattered over the surface._

_The boy would shift his gaze from the floor and onto the wall- the thin, shabbily made wall. In the dark, it could pass for a real one. In the dark, they wouldn't see them hiding. He hoped that they were safe. He did not fear kidnapping and capturing himself. He feared for his sister, just like she feared for his well-being._

_Or rather, used to._

_Her recent affairs with the Resistance had been critical. Though she was not a part of the rebellious group, she did aid them, in her own right. She was associated with them. And as far as the Germans were concerned, that was more than enough. That was more than enough for them to tear down the wall and capture her, them._

_Another bomb fell outside. Adrien closed his eyes, and felt safe for one moment. To think, a while ago, his sister insisted that this town was safe. It was not a priority, she said, they were safe! It was clear now that they weren't safe, not really. They were only safer; they only postponed their ill fate._

_Through the darkness of his eyelids, Adrien could hear a soft murmur. It was coming from his sister. Curiously, he pried his eye open. There she kneeled, looking into her palms, a book resting on her lap. She rocked softly back-and-forth, trying to sooth herself as she muttered these words, which sounded like ancient chants._

_"Eleka nahmen, ah tum, ah tum, eleka nahmen…Eleka nahmen, nahmen, ah tum, ah tum, eleka nahmen…"_

_The horrible sounds that came out of her mouth sounded like the bitter song Death would sing, taking away souls of this earth. He raised his head up and looked at her, her back that rocked and swayed. Her stretched-out hands were soon clasped as she began speaking into them, softly._

_"Let his flesh not be torn, let his blood leave no stain, when they beat him, let him feel no pain, and however they try to destroy him, let him never die…" She exhaled exhaustedly; "Let him never die!"_

_The horrible chants left her mouth once more. Her brother crept up to her, slowly, his muscles still stiffened from the cowering beside the cold wall. His boots left no sound as they moved over the floor. Her bare feet were in front of him, blue and frostbitten. She continued her own prayer. After a few of these pleads, directed at nobody in the end, she wiped a tear flowing out of her crystallized eye._

_"They took him… we're next…"_

_A few shrieks were heard outside, but Adrien paid no attention to the mayhem. His heart was beating loudly as he saw the book in his sister's lap. He snatched it from her. She tried to grab it, but her hands were weak, all energy drained out after her heart broke in two mot too long ago._

_His eyes flew over the cover, and then flipped through the pages, all written in an odd language he could not understand. His sister chuckled weakly; it was the laugh of a dead woman._

_"I don't even know what I'm reading…"_

_The boy threw the book away as if it were ridden with small pox._

_"The Torah?!" He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Where did you get this?! Why do you have this?! Aren't we in enough trouble as it is?!"_

_"It's alright, Adrien," she said, her eyes glassy. "It's alright. You'll be alright."_

_"How? HOW?!" He swung his skinny arms around, trying to figure out the situation they were in. "We are stuck in here, we may or may not survive the night… what in the world were you thinking? What has gotten into you? Why now?! WHY HERE!?"_

_Lorraine looked up into the ceiling as thunder struck outside. She smiled._

_"I didn't know… I really thought this town will be safe, we all did… But it's alright now."_

_Adrien felt himself foaming at the mouth. He wanted to hit her, to kill her. Nobody could be this idiotic, he thought. He clenched his fists, pure, hot rage coming out of him. There was nothing that he could say at that moment, nothing to say to his sister, the liar and thief. She was supposed to be reasonable, but as soon as she met him… As soon as love meddled with her senses…_

_"I hate you!" He screamed at her, red in the face. She did not mind his outburst. She did not care for his burst of manic anger. If anything, she understood it, because she knew the truth behind his anger._

_The truth was, she was not the one he hated at the moment. And she knew the person he truly hated well._

_The boy shrieked along with his sister, as a sharp metal object punctured the wall. The boy ran to her, clutching her shirt. She was still warm, she still had a heart for him and it was beating fast. Whether he hated her or not, she was family, she was hope. And if this treacherous hope was the last thing he would see in his life, so be it. So be it, he thought and held on to her frayed shirt._

_As the men tore down the wall and dragged them up into the rain, into the shattered remains of their town, Adrien continued to clutch his sister's frock. She begged the men for mercy, to spare their lives. If not hers, then the boy's. But her pleads were desperate, ineffective. They were dragged into the streets, devastated by the bombings. A few mangled corpses laid on the side of the road, their faces buried in the mucky water while their children cried. These were the same children that were playing in those streets just a couple of hours ago. Thunder rolled in the distance, the ground shook. It all reminded Adrien of demise. At that point, he had forgotten about his sister's lies. He forgave her for her constant promises that Marseilles was safe, even when it was obvious that it couldn't have been. He couldn't have blamed her. Nobody could have foreseen this._

_The men pushed him into the mud, kicked him in the back. The bruises paled in comparison with the scars that he was left with, the scars not on the flesh, but on the soul. The scars that could never heal just right. His sister called out to him._

_Her delicate hand reached out to her brother, it stayed frozen in mid-air while her midnight-blue eyes widened. Adrien could see her short life escaping them. He did not hear the gunshot; he did not hear her fall on the ground. All he could hear was the thunder. The thunder and laughter._

_Still on the ground, he tried reaching her hand out, to help her, to say that he was sorry. Every inch of his body ached, he felt like he was going to die, like he needed to die to make up for all the wrongs he carried out. He felt like the worst human being still on the face of the Earth._

_And then he felt nothing._

_It all happened so fast._

* * *

The emissary stumbled through the hallway, only half-aware of reality. His muscles tightened, and he found himself often leaning against the wall. He walked into the kitchen, wanting to calm down and have a sip of water.

Another figure was sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee.

"Hey," Irene said with a smile, tightening her dressing gown around her chest.

"Hello," he responded.

"Bad dreams?" She guessed, taking a sip of her lukewarm beverage.

"Terrible dreams, I'm afraid."

The woman ticked her head towards the coffee pot, sitting on the stove. It was clear to Spy that he would be staying there, at least until his head cleared.

* * *

_The Medic had no idea how he had gotten here. Somehow, inside the pitch-black room, he held the remote in his hand and switched between the two channels on television. He switched, moving fast from Emily to the news, from the news to Emily. His eyes couldn't focus on anything, he was in a strange state of utter exhaustion, but he did not want to sleep. It was almost as if he couldn't. It was almost as if he already was asleep._

_The blonde's irritating voice annoyed him to no end, but he still switched to her after listening to the news for about two minutes. He was sick of it, completely sick of it all. The news had become a warning sign, constantly reminding the survivors that they were doomed. After the recent events, the Medic couldn't take it anymore._

_Then he switched to the lies; sweet, beautiful lies told by Emily, which seemed to soothe the now almost brain-dead public. She talked about life in New York, life in the big city that was promised to last far beyond this infection. Sadly, Medic failed to believe the girl. He continued to switch from the hair-pulling news anchors to the smiling girl, who turned her head slightly to the side and chuckled occasionally at her remarks._

_The conversation between the two channels was mind-numbing._

"Twenty million dead… The best city in the world… All hope lost, said the president of… A truly marvelous place, darlings… The virus had been claimed fatal by yet another… The best musical theatre that you will visit time and time again… We're doomed! ... We're safe!"

_Well which one fucking was it?_

_At one point, he gave up from switching to the channels and continued to stare blankly at the screen. His eyes were blurry, and he barely listened to the set. He could have been watching static and listening to white noise, for all he cared. That was how it felt._

"…your fault…"

_Heimlich moved his head up to the screen. Surely enough, Emily was there, still going on about something. That thing he heard… what was she talking about?_

"Now, now, now, don't you worry about a thing, darlings! Everything is alright. And if I'm proven otherwise, we can always blame doctor Dienstag."

_The Medic jolted in his sofa and looked at the girl. Her warm smile disappeared. The face was gone, the dream was gone and reality struck like a butcher's blade. She stared straight into his eyes. He began to sweat, he wanted to more but felt paralyzed from the neck down. For a second, he wanted his head to fly away, to leave this wretched dark room._

"That drug you created… it really wasn't that safe, was it?"

_Heimlich gulped. Was this reality? What was this monstrosity? Emily stood up and pointed her finger at him, placing one hand on her waist._

"I'm surprised you didn't figure this out before… an experimental medicine such as that must have caused some trouble… you thought it was safe for testing, Dienstag. Well… think again!"

_Before the Medic could realize anything, he noticed something on his shoulder. It was a small, snowy-feathered dove. It cooed at him, pecking at the beige vest the doctor was wearing. It shook, cooing. The Medic watched it with narrowed eyes._

_"…Archimedes?"_

"Doves are clever creatures, Dienstag," said Emily, "More clever than some humans I came in contact with. They know everything… And I do mean everything."

_With a tug of his beak, Archimedes took off the doctor's glasses. They fell on the ground, shattering like porcelain. Emily smiled as a flock of doves flew in from the walls, the windows and the floorboards._

"I will purify this Earth you doomed. I will lead the men to victory. I will save the mankind from its sin. I will put an end to you… I should have done this a long time ago."

_Emily's unnatural, almost mechanical voice boomed around him, as his beloved doves reached deep into his eye-socket and pulled out his eyeball by the nerve. He screamed with pain. The girl was watching him, always watching him as he was turned into food, into flesh that fed the starving masses._

"Obey. Obey. You must obey. You can't resist. You'll never win. Listen to your Queen, my darlings…"

_Never had Heimlich experienced such discomfort. His nails were torn, ripped out of his fingers. His hair was left in clumps on the floor. Emily's voice still pierced the room, encouraging the mindless doves. Heimlich couldn't see, he could no longer breathe. But her words stayed, along with the gut feeling that he caused this New Plague._

"I will guide you to the end. Consider me not your leader, but your friend. But for this true friendship to work, listen to what I say. Ask me not why or how, simply obey…"

_The birds ate the doctor's flesh until he was left a screaming skeleton. Emily grinned; her laugh could have been coming from the Inferno itself._

"Men will go, I will live. I will not forget, I never forgive. No kindness I will give, only guidance, obey my whim… Obey. Obey. You must obey…"

_The awakening was quick and nauseating._

* * *

The next night, the group was on the field, watching the endless plains, almost hoping for an Infected horde. Time dripped slowly, like syrup. The Scout was the first one to get up.

"I'm off to bed. I'm freakin' exhausted."

"Way ahead of ya…" The Sniper said through a yawn.

"Ah, yes. The bed…" The Medic sighed, ticking his head to the side in exhaustion. "What a wonderful place to be… to lie, to sleep… to snore…"

"And dream," the Spy added, not moving his eyes from the plain.

When he said that, the men all returned to their positions, coming to a silent agreement that sleep was overrated.


	14. The Bones

**A/N: **I have been told I give my OCs too much screentime. I respond to this concrit by putting my OC in the first fucking paragraph of the chapter, because I'm a douche.

Now seriously, *rubs hands* let's break some cuties!

* * *

_Out, damned spot! Out, I say!_

According to Irene, cleanliness was always next to godliness. Every time something went wrong, she would not panic. She would grab a can of hot water and a mop. In seconds, the house would shine and glisten, and she would learn to live with herself.

She cleaned the entire attic when her husband was going through his mid-life crisis. Not a speck of dirt lingered there, she organized everything alphabetically. The neighbors were envious; she was pleased with life once again. When her daughter ran away from home once again, Irene paved the driveway, fixed the roof and polished the silverware. That was a particularly dark time for her; almost as dark as the time her husband assaulted her son-in-law. There was not a single time during her life when she didn't cope with her problems by scrubbing them away. And today, stricken with another wave of grief, she had taken to scraping the coagulated blood off her chainsaw.

Some said that hydrogen peroxide worked best with cleaning blood off metal. Bleach was also highly effective. Using either of those things was out of the question because of two reasons. One, living in this small, godforsaken sanctuary had its shortcomings, in the form of the severe lack of cleaning products. Two, if Irene did manage to gain access to the cleaning supplies, she would most likely drink them before they reached the surface of the blades.

Soap and water it was, then.

She used a piece of steel wool, scrubbing the chainsaw and not minding the scratches. No matter how hard she scrubbed, it could never get clean. There would always be one speck of blood, one flake stuck between the blades, resembling a scab that would never fall off. She would pick at those with her nails. The blood-stained handle was not an issue; she just wanted to scrape off the metal, to make the blade flow easier through the mangled flesh of the Infected that might come their way.

It was funny to her. She never considered those things living beings. Simply irritating items that needed to be cut down by half, like overgrown hedges.

She managed to get most of the blood off, using up about one third of the soap. She leaned over the kitchen sink, one hand lingering over the tap. Satisfied that the blood was removed, she set the tap handle upwards, and soon the hot liquid poured over the blade.

Over twenty years as a housewife, she knew all the tips and tricks to getting the most stubborn stains out. From coffee rings on the new table cloth to the mold behind the refrigerator, she could clean everything in a snap. Still, certain things still managed to surprise her, much like this stain she was dealing with now.

Getting blood off a chainsaw was the hardest imperfection to correct since… since…

Since trying to correct herself. Or rather, since she was forced to correct herself.

Such bitter pills those were. She could still taste the powder grinding under her teeth.

She huffed and wiped off the sweat from her wrinkled brow. Suddenly, she saw something that made her gasp in annoyance. The blood was still there, if anything there was more of it. Working as much as she was, she still couldn't get all the stains out. In a long groan, she came to terms with how hard it was to clean blood off metal.

And then a thought struck her. If this sanctuary really was safe, she wouldn't have to clean up her weapon. She wouldn't need to use it. She would just wait in this base until the entire thing just blew over.

_If it isn't safe… what are we doing here?_

_Or better yet, what am I doing here?_

What was really her role here? A nuisance. A pest. An inconvenience. She knew that she and her daughter were considered to be all this and so much more. But she had no say in the matter. She had no choice. She fought for survival and cleaned to clear her mind. Time flew by, slowly and agonizingly. The New Plague would never end, it seemed. And she had to get by, living with those monstrous fools, not giving her an ounce of respect she thought she deserved.

Hell.

Not even her husband was there to comfort her in most of her times of need. He excused his aloofness with all the work that needed to be done. But days would pass before he could say but one word to her. Nobody could be that busy. With a sigh, she decided against throwing this little self-pity party and scratched the surface of her weapon once again.

_Wait._

Irene looked at the blood-covered weapon.

Something was wrong.

Hot, sticky blood flew from the pipe and onto her hands, onto the clump of steel wool. She lifted her hands up close to her face. There it was; blood. Blood that she tried to clean was now coming back, flowing in one long, steady flow. Small red droplets fell on the sink, around the weapon. They ricocheted off the blade and splattered across the floor. Irene's heart started beating. Unconsciously, she wiped her hand off her shirt. It left a palm print, a bloody mark. The water continued to flow, albeit unevenly. At times it seeped like a waterfall, the next minute it squirted in small veins, the pipes looked like they were coughing. They sounded like an old man fighting an ill-fated disease. Irene gasped, a tear of fear and confusion dripped on her cheek.

"Dell!" She shrieked and ran her bloodied hands down her garment. They left long, thick marks. "Dell!"

She watched the crimson stream pour over the sink. Her hands grabbed her face, leaving spots. Filthy, wretched, disgusting spots. And soon, the image of her, reflected on the pooling blood, reminded her of those nightmares she had yet again become prone to.

Her husband ran into the room, instinctively putting his arms around her. He asked her a question but she couldn't hear a word. Luckily, his gaze fell on the faucet. His jaw unhinged as his eyes widened in disbelief. He held his weeping wife closer.

"Come on, Irene…" he said as he stroked her back and walked her towards the door, his eyes stuck on the scarlet liquid pouring out of the metal snout.

"Wha-what's happening?" She asked through quick, short weeps.

"Relax, Irene," he said calmly; "I'll handle this. There's nothing to worry about."

He lied.

* * *

The tinkerer inspected the filter near the river just outside of the field. The water was almost a crimson red. With a tap of his wrench, he clanged upon the large, yellow contraption. The filter was supposed to bring fresh water to the base, but what could it bring when the contents of the river bank were blood?

"So…" The Demoman asked, squinting at the filter. "Can ya fix it?"

The Engineer shook his head, less in negation and more in exhaustion. He took off his hard hat and wiped some sweat off his forehead with his wrist. His small eyes gave away fear.

"It'll take a while…" he admitted. "Nothin' I can't handle. What worries me is how that blood got in there in the first place."

The Demoman leaned over to the large piece of machinery that he knew nothing about. It was strange, indeed. The Engineer explained that the main problem would be extracting the blood. There must have been at least twenty gallons of it.

"My theory is that some of the Infected blood came down here… but then again… the last fight was mighty long ago…"

"Hm…" The Demoman rubbed under his chin, the mechanism in his cranium beginning to tick. "Do ya think we should call Solly? He might have some ideas."

The Engineer desperately tried to swallow a lump in his throat.

"Nah, I'd let him… sit this one out."

The Demoman nodded.

The hot, white sun glared upon the two mercenaries. They were sweating through their clothes, Dell slightly more than the Demoman as he tried to detach a large sheet of metal from the filter, to inspect it properly. He unscrewed the bolts and tossed them near his boots. Taking a wide stance, he grabbed the large sheet of metal with both his hands and pulled it towards him. The corrosion made this strenuous, the tinkerer drew it closer to himself until he was heaving and red in the face, about as red as the team's color. The Demoman noticed his toil and aided him. There was a short moment of appreciation coming from the Engineer when the Scot put his hands on the metal.

There were bones in the cylinder. The bones were an almost golden yellow. The Demoman grabbed one of them in disbelief. The bone was surprisingly light and tiny, like a chicken bone. Upon cracking it, he was instantly reminded of plucking out a roasted chicken wing. These bones _were_ chicken bones. This naturally, raised more questions.

The tinkerer stared at the bones, his jaw dropped and his eyes wide behind his foggy goggles. He inched his hand towards the cracked bone but pulled it away, still not sure of its origin.

"I… I know what clogged up the filter," said the Demoman while he dropped the crumbling bone to the ground. "The question is…"

"How it got there…" The Engineer finished the question. He then turned to the machine, scratching his moist neck. He extended his arm out to the mechanism, his voice suddenly more impatient. "Who put it in there? And where is the blood coming from…?"

The Demoman squinted at the tinkerer, the hot sun burning his cornea. He blinked to clear his vision.

"Do ya think the blood's coming from the chicken? I'm quite sure that this is a chicken bone…"

"Chicken bone or not, all the chickens are accounted for, and there's nothin' else in the mechanism."

The Engineer tugged at another small, yellowish piece. As soon as he removed it, the filter began to cough and produce a foul noise, almost as if it were coming back to life. This did not happen. Instead, the contraption hissed and died instantly. The Texan released a sigh or suppressed anger. One thing was certain. He needed to get this fixed.

"'Sides, who'd put the bone there in the first place?" The Engineer asked, distracting himself from his destructive thoughts.

"I dunno," shrugged the Scot, knocking at the machine. It chimed upon his knuckle's impact. The Engineer subtly moved his hand away, telling him not to touch it.

"Truth be told, I'm only worried about the blood."

"Well ya shouldn't only be worried about the blood," the Texan said, rubbing his now sore neck. "Maybe a wounded Infected tried to escape after the battle, fell in the lake and drowned. The blood comin' from him might have been filtered until… somebody sabotaged us."

Sabotage. That was the one word the Engineer couldn't stand. The vein across his temple twitched as he said the dreaded word, and he placed his hand over his eye to calm himself down. The Demoman stretched his hands out.

"Or… maybe a wounded Infected was coming this way…"

The Texan's eyes widened at the theory.

"And if one came along this way, that means more'll come with 'im."

"That means we'll have to watch out for those things."

"In a nutshell, aye."

The machine hissed in agreement, some chunks of bone still sticking through the gaps between the filter's wall and the hydraulic drive. Whoever wanted this machine dead, decided to do it quickly. This would be easy to fix, Dell mused with relief, and all it needed was a good clean and some fine-tuning to get the rotors going again. Still, he would prefer to leave the work out altogether.

"Well," Dell lowered his shoulders and adjusted his goggles that were leaving deep, red streaks over his eyebrows. "Time to get to work."

The Demoman knew that this was his cue to leave him to his work. He walked back into the base, deep in thought. It was odd, somehow, not having any clean water that day. They should have seen that coming, honestly. With all the things that started to go wrong lately, it's only a matter of time before the whole thing crashes onto them. Well, he thought, at least the men were still together.

His shoes spread some dust across the hot air, dancing in front of his eyes. All he could think about was having a cold pint with the Soldier.

If only he could find the bastard…

* * *

Sarah cocked up her gun and shot once into a tree. She missed the first time. A small sparrow was hit on her next try. She had pressed on the trigger firmly, not letting the throwback catch her off-guard. The small bird was already in flight, startled by the first shot. Luckily, the second blast was fired before the bird could escape anywhere. It fell at the bottom of the tree, still twitching. A small smile spread across Sarah's face. She turned her head back.

"Look, Snipes, I did it! I told ya I could do it!"

The marksman was sitting on the grass, reading an old magazine he found in the shed. He licked his finger and flipped a page over, not even looking at the girl.

"Mmm-hmm, nice work, Jellybean. You still twitch, though."

The girl grabbed her waist with her hand, her gun hanging in her other hand.

"No, I don't!"

"You do. And you enthuse too much. Take it down a few notches."

She smiled wickedly at the sniper rifle in front of him. "Hey, ya talk a lot about my shooting, but I haven't seen ya shoot anythin' while we were out here."

"Is that a challenge?"

The girl smiled and stood up, narrowing her eyes. "Yep."

With a displeased grunt, the marksman let go of the magazine and grabbed the weapon, standing up and pointing the barrel into the sky. He huffed loudly.

"Alright, Jellybean, whaddya want me to shoot?"

"Hmmm…" She pouted her lips and tapped her chin with her index finger. She was looking for something truly impossible to shoot, something that would make even John Wayne drop his weapon and walk away in graceful refusal. She saw a tiny raven, a small black dot that croaked while it flew under two smoky clouds.

"See that raven over-?"

She was interrupted by a gunshot. The marksman moved his eye from the scope and reloaded his gun with one swift motion. The cap fell by his side, and the black bird fell from the air, losing altitude quickly. A shit-eating grin spread wide across his face while he adjusted his scope.

"Not any more…" he joked as the bird disappeared out of their sight. Sarah narrowed her eyes at him. She briefly looked around the area before she realized that there was nothing left to shoot. The house. The van. The Pyro looking at them. That was it.

"Fine, you win!" She admitted. "But ya know, you can't always shoot at the Infected from ten feet away."

"Says you."

"Says logic."

"And that's logic coming from a ten-year-old? A ten-year-old without any killing experience prior to Harvest?"

"No," she switched the safety back on her gun, in case this fight got out of hand. "That's logic coming from a reasonable human being. You can't fight off a horde with twenty-five bullets. By the time you shot twelve of them, there's a hundred coming to kill you! And that's why ya need a different approach. And besides, I _do _have killing experience. I have to. I'm Texan."

Mundy ticked his head to the side, less irritated by the fact that he got into a minor argument with a little girl and more irritated by the fact that he was being bested in it. He put the weapon under his forearm and scoffed.

"Well what do ya suppose would work, then?"

"I dunno!" She said, mostly defensively. "You're supposed to be the mentor 'round here!"

"Well I-!" The Australian backed away, his eyes wide open and staring at the girl. Unwillingly, his mouth twitched upwards into a small smile. "Ya… ya really think of me as a mentor?"

The girl winced at the Aussie's strange expression.

"Well right now I think of you as a weirdo."

"Mmmbye Hm chmmld bmm omf ahmsihmthmce?"

The two looked at the firebug, stepping towards them with its hand out.

"Hmmph yhh whnt hm bhmmtr fhhmghthng thhmniqhe, Hmm chmmld shmw yhhm shme sthmmph…" It gestured to the girl. The Australian shrugged.

"Uh, thanks Py, but I'm not sure Jellybea-" he cleared his throat. "I'm not sure that Sarah would understand-"

"What kinda stuff?" She asked, stepping away from the marksman. The Pyro mumbled something in a cheery tune and grabbed her under its arm. The two began to walk away from the Australian, slowly. He looked at them leave, clutching his weapon.

"Nhow," the Pyro raised its hand up to illustrate something more clearly. Sarah followed it with her gaze. "Thhm fhhrst thhng yhhm nhhhd hmms hm Mhhlhmmtv chmmcthmml."

"Sure!" Sarah shrieked, a bit louder than she probably intended. "I love cocktails! I made 'em for my Grandma every time she came over! Never really liked them, though. Said they needed more whiskey."

The marksman snorted.

"Oh, sure!" He yelled at them, sarcastically. "I'll jus' be out here, then. If ya set something on fire and the kid starts to burn up, don't you come crawlin' to me for Jarate!"

Sarah suddenly stopped and turned back to the marksman. The Sniper instantly bit his tongue, running the mini-rant inside his head and realizing how idiotic it must have sounded. Sarah clicked her tongue at him.

"You're really weird…" she shook her head. "You kinda remind me of my older sis. Hey, when we finally find her, I can introduce you two. Ya have a lot in common, ya know. You're both weirdos!"

With those words, she hopped alongside the mumbling abomination. The sharpshooter bit the inside of his cheek, his mind wandering far away, back into the past.

"Ahem," the Spy materialized himself in front of the Australian. The man nearly dropped his gun in surprise.

"Spook! What-?" He coughed to lower the tone of his voice. "What're ya…?"

"I saw the look on your face, Mundy." The secret agent narrowed his eyes and brought himself closer to the marksman's face. The Australian noticed that the Spy wasn't wearing his jacket lately. Quite odd.

"Don't."

The marksman managed a chuckle. "Nah, Spook, I wasn't going to-…"

"I mean it, Mundy," the Spy said, sternly this time. "Don't."

"I wasn't going to!" The Sniper exclaimed in a short burst of fright and irritation. The Spy lifted his eyebrow for a moment, trying to stare the marksman down. After about five seconds, he moved away and placed the palm of his gloved hand on his invisibility watch.

"Good… as long as we're clear."

At that very moment, he flicked a switch and disappeared into thin air in smoke wisps.

Mundy really hated it when he did that.

* * *

The Medic stared blankly onto the television screen. The news anchor reported that they would later be broadcasting an exclusive phone call, a phone call that would clear the dilemma on the New Plague once and for all. It all happened so long ago. The call, the drug, the testing… Was it possible that this entire thing was his fault? Did he single-handedly doom mankind and all it represented?

And now, finally, the truth would be out in the open. A strange rush flew over his body. If they played his phone call, the one where he confirmed the testing, his life would be over. Or rather, all life would be over, and it would be completely his fault. His heart was beating fast, and he felt as if a gallon of blood swished inside his insides. He clutched his stomach, beads of sweat appearing above his brow. Could it be… was it his fault?

The dream he had was coming true. The truth would be out in the open, and he would be massacred by the people he had betrayed. They would peck at his flesh and tear out his soul. Men took no prisoners, he knew this. It was in man's nature. The large, gray image flashed before him, the entire room shook vigorously. With a gasp, the doctor fell on the sofa, bringing his knees close to his chest. Soft wheezes came out of his mouth evenly. The channel on the television needed to be switched, the damn thing needed to be turned off or else he'd vomit. But he couldn't move one inch, due to his utter mental and physical exhaustion.

His only comfort in this hour was the fact that nobody was there to witness his downfall. Once a proud doctor of medicine was reduced to a monster. A foul creator. If his teammates found out… No. No, they needed to find out. But why should he tell them? They would kill him! He didn't even try to hope that they wouldn't. All of them hated this New Plague, all the way down to the child. The gray images that flashed before him were now turning yellow, his eyes twitched and his face turned pale. All blood rushed from his head and into his beating heart that felt as if it were going to burst.

For a second, he felt as if he had died. He could see despair and emptiness around him. Electricity seemed to surge through his skin, go between every strand of tissue and through his nerves. The pain was the sharpest in his extremities. He thought that birds pecked at the flesh, tearing it strand by strand.

Hearing the doctor's gasps, the Heavy ran downstairs, being the only one unoccupied by anything else at that moment. He saw his doctor, recoiling and twitching, pure pain shooting out of his very being.

"Heavy!" He grinded his teeth and clutched his chest. "Get me a medi-pack! _Schnell_!" He shouted before he began breathing heavily again, darkness falling over his bloodshot eyes.

* * *

It didn't matter whether it was an anxiety attack or not, it shook the Medic's core to no end. A part of him wished his heart had given up, rather than his nerves. He wouldn't want to go through having to listen to the recording. He wanted to die. Or rather, he wanted everybody else to die. Sitting on the Heavy's bed, he wondered how it got so bad so fast. His worst nightmare was coming true. The Russian put a blanket around the still pale Medic. The doctor pulled it over his shoulders.

"_Danke_," he said in a hollow tone. He was glad nobody else was there to witness it. It was a good thing guard duties were more frequent nowadays. The mercenaries would either be outside during the night, or passed out inside after a long shift. He was grateful for this.

"What happened, doctor?" Asked the Heavy.

"It's…" the man gulped. "It's nothing."

"It is not nothing. What is it?" Heavy asked again.

"It's… nothing to worry about," the doctor lied.

The Russian dropped his shoulders.

"Doctor… you looked as if you were dying. I think that is to worry about…" The large Russian moved closer to the doctor, who was too ashamed to look at the man.

"Tell."

The Medic did not want to tell him. And yet, he thought, it would be better if he heard it from him, rather than some news anchor in a one-sided story. He sighed.

"Alright. I will tell you. But promise you will listen to the whole story before you say anything. Alright?"

The Heavy nodded once, leaving the doctor to tell his tale.

The doctor talked about the project, about the Corporation, about the tests. He told the Heavy about the phone call and the news for tomorrow. He answered that nobody else knew about this. The Russian listened closely, a pensive look never leaving his stern face. When the Medic finished his story, the Heavy did not attack him. He did not scold him. Then again, he had no reason to. Not yet, anyway.

"So what will doctor do now?"

The German shook his head.

"Wait until tomorrow. Wait until they kill me."

"They will not."

"Oh?"

"You kept me alive, I kept you alive. Was always like that. Will be always like that."

The Medic smiled sadly, tugging at the blanket that fell off his shoulders.

"There is no chance that we will be transferred to another sanctuary? One without a television or any other way of communication? Just until the heat vears off, _oder_?" He asked, only half-joking.

"Doctor did not do anything wrong yet."

"I know… but the thought of me being the cause of… those people not being able to go home… not being able to be with their families… it saddens me."

Out from the Heavy's nose flew a puff of air, which was supposed to come out as a short laugh.

"You miss Natasha, don't you?" He asked lightheartedly.

The Medic nodded before he fell into his arms, making quick, neurotic twitches. His body shuddered briefly before it went completely limp. With a serious frown, the Heavy placed the Medic on the bed. The doctor still clutched the blanket tightly in his arms. The Russian licked his fingers and put out the candle on the nightstand. The smoke wisped upwards while the flame hissed under his calloused fingertips. Saying goodnight to his Sasha laying on the bed in the corner of the room, he walked downstairs, leaving the Medic to sleep in peace.

His dreams were troubling. Not as troubling, though, as what was about to ensue.

* * *

The Engineer got the damn thing working again. Not for long, though. Shrouded in the night, the intruder took out his tool and jammed it between two sheets of corroded metal.

With a twist of his crowbar, he opened the machine. It buzzed up until he tossed another bone inside. Hopefully it would destroy it for good this time. This time, they better leave this wretched sanctuary.

He didn't care what it was going to take. He needed to get out of here. What better reason to send them away than a ruined water supply? He needed to leave and soon.

He needed to protect her.


	15. The Uncovering

**A/N:** I am sorry about the introduction, and yet I regret nothing.

* * *

_Knock- knock._

It wasn't this one.

_Knock-knock._

It wasn't that one either.

The Spy nervously tapped his foot against the floorboards, watching the Sniper crawl around on all fours, looking for something that happened to be inside the floor. Though he had no idea what it was, the Spy needed to see it. Unfortunately, this search was not going anywhere.

"Are you sure you hid it here?" He asked, clenching his cigarette between his middle and index finger. The Australian muttered a response, still knocking the floorboards, one by one. He groaned in disappointment when he heard another full, muted thump. He slowly crawled an inch further.

Meanwhile the Spy ogled his last cigarette; the last cigarette that he was allowed to have that day. Well, technically, the last cigarette he had smoked up was the last cigarette he was allowed to have. By his calculations, he would run out of them by the end of next month. This only made him more nervous. And naturally, he had to deal with this nervousness with a spicy, savory cigarette. At this rate, he would run out of them in a week. He was not looking forward to it.

"Look, whatever you are hiding here can wait, I happen to have a lot to do today."

"Really?" The Sniper said through a half-grin. "Like what?"

"If you must know, I have to help out Irene in the garden."

The Sniper placed his hands on his knees and sat up straight. He propped his glasses up his nose and coughed with an unmistakable smirk of conceit.

"So she finally got ya to do some chores, huh? She's no longer savin' you?" He asked, practically spewing arrogance. The Spy did not care for this.

"She is not _saving_ me_,_" he spat out the words with a scowl, "And don't tell me you are getting the same ideas as the Scout!"

"Cheer up, mate!" The marksman chuckled. "I mean, it's fairly obvious she likes you…"

"Yes, well…" The Spy interrupted him curtly, scattering some ashes over the wooden floorboards. "You should stop right there before I am forced to sit through another one of my colleagues imitating orgasms."

The marksman's eyebrow shot up in his hairline.

"Knowing you, Spook, you'd probably like it."

"Shut up and keep looking for… whatever it is that we are looking for."

"Oh, jus' something I whipped up," he said, returning to the floor.

_Knock-knock._

_Damn._

The Spy sighed with great discomfort and cracked his shoulders into place. The Sniper continued to speak, trying to fill the deafening silence, only interrupted by his knocking.

"I honestly don't see why you won't even consider the possibility of you two…" he began, ignoring the Spy's gaze. "I mean… she looks pretty good. Like Jane Fonda."

"Alright, bushman!" He said, now visibly annoyed. "One, you are an idiot. Two, she is married. Three, you are an idiot! Four, I already have a woman waiting for me, and I will not stoop to a level of an adulterer only because Irene is the only available female in the base. And finally, five, you. Are. An. Idiot."

"…_adulterer?_" The marksman sat up, looking suspicious. "The man who shagged half-a the Earth is now suddenly scared of a little wham, bam, thank you ma'am?"

"Like I said," the Spy took a long drag of his cigarette. The word came out in a puff of white smoke.

"Idiot."

"Aw, come on! Why the sudden change of character?"

"You know, Mundy, I am able to control myself. I do use my frontal lobe. I think humans have evolved past apes…" he snorted while glaring at the Australian. "At least I have."

The Australian mimicked his last sentence, moving his pupils towards the ceiling. He huffed. "What's wrong with Jane Fonda?"

"Nothing," the Spy said. A small smile appeared over his face when he found the more accurate answer.

"I prefer Vivien Leigh."

"Uh… ya know the Sheila is dead now, right?" He asked cautiously.

"What can I say…" The Spy sighed, wistfully. "Some schoolboy affections continue to linger on regardless of time and life's passing."

"Hmph. You always were into dark-haired Sheilas, weren't you?"

The Spy parted his lips to answer the question, but was stunned by the marksman's expression, as he accidentally touched one of the wooden floorboards with his elbow. This time the sound was hollow. The Sniper knocked on the wood, a wide smile spreading across his unshaven face.

"A-ha!" He cried, digging his nails between the small, hairline cracks between the floorboards. He pulled the piece of wood out of the base and placed it near him. The Spy dropped his cigarette on the floor carelessly, barely stepping on it. The ashes spread across the floor, being dragged by the sole of the Spy's expensive shoe.

Now they were both looking down on it; each man with a completely different expression. The Sniper's wide grin and glistening eyes looked as if he had just seen something out-of-this-world. He looked at it like a child would at the last biscuit in the cookie jar. He had to bite his knuckle to stop himself from squealing at its beauty. Meanwhile, the Spy stared at it as he would stare at something he had previously stepped on and just scraped off his shoe.

"What…is that?" He asked, pointing his gloved finger at the item in question.

The Sniper pulled a small plastic bag filled with odd, pinkish liquid. It was positively repugnant; the Spy leaned back and pulled a sickened grimace as he saw the fluid swish around. The Sniper smiled, looking at the fruit pulp sunken at the bottom. A couple of strings were still floating about.

"This, Spook, is the finest, home-made pruno you'll find around here."

"_Pruno_?" The Spy said skeptically while the pulp swished inside the bloated sack. The Sniper nodded.

"Prison wine."

"Oh, _merde_." The Spy pointed at his mouth, making a gagging gesture. "That is not wine, and does not even fall in the same category."

The marksman opened the bag, and the stale aroma filled the room. It reminded Mundy of fine fruitcakes and orange liquor. It reminded Adrien of strong alcohol, vomit and regret. Adrien was quickly reminded of his mother during the weekends. He coughed.

"Ah… can't ya just feel that, Spook? Can't ya just feel the flavor coming out?"

"Ugh…" the emissary clutched his stomach. "I can definitely feel something coming out."

Without warning, the Sniper reached into the bag and stock one of his fingers inside. A small drop glistened upon his finger. He placed it in his mouth, to the emissary's disgust. The Australian sucked on his finger for a bit and looked up into the ceiling while he contemplated the flavor. He showed a look of expected surprise, then a look of uncertainty, followed by disapproval for a brief moment. He ran his tongue over his teeth and shrugged.

"It tastes like nothin', actually. Sweet nothin'. Sweet Fanny Adams."

The Spy wanted to ask about the expression, but was then asked to hold the bag. The contents were squishy, foul-smelling and warm. The last part disgusted the Spy to no end. He stuck his tongue out just before he saw the Sniper reappear in front of him, a small cup in hand. It was his No#1 Sniper mug.

"But then again," he shrugged, "What can you tell from a drop?"

He tugged at the slick end of the plastic bag and scooped some of the mushy substance as if it were soup. The Spy gagged once again, trying to balance the bag without touching it too much.

"Oh, grow up!" The Sniper said loudly, taking a sip. There were a couple of chunks he had to chew over, but once he swallowed the substance, he was quite content. "Bliss," he said. Spy highly doubted his validity.

The Sniper took the bag away from the Spy, and the Frenchman continued to rub his hands over his shirt, a strange feeling coming over him, as though the bag had leaked. Luckily, it didn't, but he could still feel the unpleasant warmth. The gagging sensation returned once the Sniper presented him with the cup.

"I'd rather die…" he muttered.

"Don't knock it 'till ya try it, mate," the Sniper said.

The Spy stared at the cup reluctantly. The marksman wasn't giving up on it anytime soon. With a groan and a curse, the Spy took the cup gingerly and brought it close to his mouth.

"You didn't happen to relieve yourself in this cup at any time, did you?" He asked with a crooked grimace. The Australian shook his head.

"Too bad. It might have improved the flavor," he joked half-heartedly. He gulped and grasped the brim of the cup with his chapped lips, prepared for hell.

After about two seconds, the Spy took the cup away. The Sniper arched his eyebrows in anticipation.

"Well…?"

The Spy sat on the floor, without a word. His eyes were glassy, and he still held the cup tightly. The _thump _that came upon impact made Mundy jolt in surprise, and for a second, he thought the Spy had fainted. But he was conscious, though silent. He finally spoke just as Mundy sat next to him, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Vomit-flavored wine cooler."

The marksman laughed. "Yeah, you get that sometimes… it's better the second time…" He stopped himself mid-sentence, when he realized that the Spy hadn't blinked since he sat there. "What's wrong, Spook?"

The Spy glared at his cup. A sad smile moved across his masked face, shrouded in the darkness of the dusty attic.

"I… I remember the first wine I ever drank. I was sixteen… it was sent to me by my mentor, just before I went to Paris to pursue my career in international espionage… a 1935 Cabernet Sauvignon." He smiled, thinking about the flavor and sweet aroma of the smooth liquid. "It was supposed to be a wine of class, of upmost prestige and elegance. It was the kind of wine you buy to keep, to savor, to share with a beautiful woman… like Vivien." He smiled. The smile soon turned into a solemn expression as he looked at the chunks floating about inside the cup.

"This… tastes completely the same. Although it isn't, although it shouldn't be. Being here has… damaged my good taste. It… damaged me."

The Sniper nodded, unsure of what to say. The Spy took another sip, and this time, he sighed with something that resembled satisfaction.

"My God, what has this ostracism done to me? I can't tell a Cabernet apart from a… from a… a fruit shit in a cracked cup."

The Sniper wanted to laugh. He truly wanted to laugh. But deep inside, he knew that he shouldn't. He tilted his panama over his face and sighed, trying to say something. He said the first thing that came to mind.

"Marlene Dietrich…"

The Spy jerked his head at him. "Pardon me?"

"Ya know how ya said Viv was yer childhood crush? Well, mine was Marlene."

The Spy tilted his head up, finally blinking with bemusement. "Really? She hardly resembled those large-breasted, heavily tanned blonde women you always whistle at whenever you wish to embarrass yourself in public. And Fonda, for that manner. Not to mention…" The Spy suddenly bit his lip, ceasing to speak. The redhead should not be talked about at this time, he reminded himself.

The Sniper shrugged.

"What can I say? Those Sheilas come and go… but Marlene…" He released a puff of air, his eyes becoming foggy with thought. The Spy smiled at him and looked away, into a cobweb decorating the corner of the drab and dreary attic. This was all they could do at this point, he supposed. Daydream and hope that things would get better, dream of drinking fine wine that would taste nothing like this delicious monstrosity. He finished the cup and tossed it behind his back, ignoring the clatter it produced when it hit the ground.

Suddenly, the two heard yells coming from downstairs. Mundy shook his head and ran towards the noise. The Spy stayed a little while, contemplating Marlene.

_Mmmmm, no._

_She couldn't hold a candle to Vivien._

* * *

The Medic laid on the ground, protecting his blood-covered face while the team fought over him. The Heavy protected him as he promised; not letting the Engineer hit him again with his wrench. He knew this was going to happen. He knew they would play the phone call, he knew that everyone would watch it. They announced it earlier that morning several times. It was the most anticipated thing to watch. Deep down, he knew that he caused this.

And yet… that wasn't the phone call.

His voice was there, but the questions were altered. The questions asked him about the risks, if he was willing to take them. It was almost as if they had edited it, to the point where he was certain that the people in the Corporation framed him. He protected himself, first with words, then with his forearms when the Engineer and the Demoman bashed him without mercy.

"You… idiot!" The Engineer spat out, being held by the Heavy. "You did this! You did all of this!"

"I did not-!" He tried to speak up, but was silenced as the Demoman threw a half-full bottle of Scrumpy on him. The liquid spread across the wall when the German dodged it, just by an inch. The brown liquid poured down the wood menacingly. The glass shards glistened on the floor, reflecting the Medic's frightened grimace from different angles.

"Doctor did not do anything wrong!" The Heavy insisted. Suddenly, the Engineer pushed him aside with unspeakable force. He stared at the pathetic doctor, spewing pure poison.

"You… traitor! You Judas! You were in here, eating our food and sleeping in our bed and for what?! You wanted to kill us yourself, didn't you?" He spewed through a growl.

"No, you must understand, I didn't-!"

"SHUT UP!" The Engineer yelled before throwing his wrench at him in pure anger. It hit his already bleeding nose, and he clutched it firmly, falling back on the ground. The crimson blood spread over his hands, reminding him of a crime he committed. But did he, really? If he did, why would they have changed it? They were plotting something, something against him. Two men ran downstairs, bearing puzzled looks.

"What's goin' on?" The Sniper asked, his eyes flickering to and fro.

The Engineer screamed and ran to attack the Medic once again. The Heavy held him by the chest as the Texan kicked and screamed. The Demoman glared at the sight.

"Yer jus' lucky Soldier ain't here right now… you'd be dead!" He said the last work with an indescribable amount of venom. It sent child down the Medic's spine.

"What is going on in here?" Asked Irene loudly as she ran into the room, furrowing her brow. The Engineer slowly looked away from the doctor's face, panting loudly. He shot a steely gaze at his wife.

"You…" he licked his dry lips, only half aware of what he was about to say. "You know what caused this New Plague?"

The Engineer stared at the Medic, cowering from the group. The mechanic shut his eyes tightly.

"It was a drug. A drug endorsed by him…"

"No it was not!" The Medic stood up on his feet, holding onto the wall. Blood trickled down his nose, forming a cracking foam just above his upper lip. As he spoke, he showed his red teeth, which felt coppery under his tongue.

"The phone call was altered! I did not do this!"

"You fucking liar!" Scout cried from the back of the room. "You fucking bastard! You fucking liar! I can't even know if my Ma is alright because of you, you fucking traitor!"

"You did this?" Irene asked, gingerly walking up to him. "The phone call they were going to show…" Her head tilted to the side, as a moment of silence ensued. She watched him with a mix of bemusement and disbelief. "…you made it?"

The Medic wanted to deny this, but it was hopeless. The distressed look on his face said it all. Irene acquired an expression of pure fury. Nostrils flaring, her face turned hot and blood red. Her muscles tightened just before she shouted.

"YOU DID THIS?!"

With a yell, she ran across the room and jumped on the Medic. Her fists flew his way, one strike, two strikes, incoherent yells coming from her mouth.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" She shouted between punches. "I'LL KILL YOU, YOU LYING, DECEITFUL SON OF A BITCH!"

The men watched the woman beat the man mercilessly, until the Heavy grabbed her by the waist and picked her up. She kicked and screamed whilst in his arms, wanting to break free, wanting to destroy the man.

"You did this to us!" She shouted, foaming at the mouth. It was unclear who was more terrified; the doctor or the spectators. "You sent us here! You killed us! You fu- let me go!" She kicked the Russian's shin forcefully, but the man hid his grimace and tightened his grip. The woman squirmed inside his arms as the Medic's figure became further and further away. She practically spat out her rage at him.

"Five seconds!" She yelled out as she was carried away. "Just give me five seconds with that…that… TRAITOR!"

When Irene was finally carried out of the room, everything seemed quieter. The men still yelled at the Medic in bewilderment and rage, and the Medic took it, knowing that he had this coming for a long time. Their insults felt like daggers, but they caused him no pain. They relieved him from the stress. In the end, getting stabbed was not that unbearable on its own. It was the anticipation of the impact.

"Traitor!" The Engineer hissed. "Moron! I wasted countless bullets on those… those… things! I should've spent only one on you! Only one bullet and we wouldn't even be in this mess!"

"Hey!"

The Heavy dropped Irene on the kitchen floor and ran into the room.

He stood between the Engineer and the doctor, pushing the mechanic away by about two feet. The Engineer did not care for the action, but he remained as calm as he possibly could be, narrowing his eyes at the Russian while his teeth showed. His gloved hands were clenched. The Heavy attempted to look down on the man.

"You have no right to hurt this doctor. None of you do!" He said, looking at the others. "Whatever credit you bring to team, the Medic brings tenfold! Medic did not infect people! Medic did not kill innocent! He did his job, he did what he thought was best!" His voice suddenly dropped, coming down to a brooding bass.

"You did not complain when he healed you. You did not complain when he brought us to victory all those times in battle."

The crowd was silent. All eyes were pointed at the large Russian staring at the short Texan, about two seconds away from committing mass homicide. All that could be heard at that moment was the Bostonian's nervous shifting from side to side, and the Medic's loud breathing.

A small smile came across the Texan's face. A sound escaped him. He began laughing, laughing like a demented psychopath. He wasn't loud; the tone was more hollow and deep.

"No…" he said, shaking his head. "I did not complain. But you are forgetting one thing, Heavy."

The Russian leaned back, raising his eyebrow. The Engineer walked up to the Medic, not with the desire to hurt him, but with the desire to destroy everything he ever stood for.

"Back when you actually did something, we didn't have a billion Infected at our door. Back when you did something, we weren't fighting for our bare lives. But you changed that. The tides have turned, the situation has changed. And I'm afraid you made that happen."

The Medic flattened himself against the wall, almost hearing the wood cracking as he applied his force onto the walls. He Engineer watched him with anger in his eyes.

"A traitor I do not tolerate. A liar I hate. Here's what you're going to do: the first thing tomorrow morning, you will leave this house. You will take what you came with and get out of this base."

"Whoa, hey, Engie, I…" The Scout started in an unexpected tone of distress, but was soon stopped in place when the Texan brought his hand up. He didn't look away from the German's pale, exhausted face.

"You will never come back. And if I ever see your face again, I will murder you. And I assure you," he said, ticking his head to the side with an almost sadistic grin;

"I will do it very, very slowly."

The doctor frowned, not saying anything. Without another word, the Engineer turned on his heel and walked away from the doctor.

The door slammed as he exited. The Medic was left with his teammates, all looking at him with disgust. The Medic was officially sentenced to exile. The future now was bleak for him. Seeing the weapons some of his former colleagues held, he was unsure if he was going to live through the night.

* * *

Bearing his suitcase in one hand, the doctor stepped out of the house, into the bleak, cold field. His clothes were tattered and his nose broken. The feeling in his right arm was gone. His shiner resembled a large apple, that looked as if it were about to burst. He barely lived through last night. The Heavy could only hold them off for so long. Right now, he was glad that he was forced to leave. Several teammates were awake at the break of dawn, just as he was leaving. The doctor ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He felt the spit in it.

The sun had begun to rise. He followed it, not caring if he was going to get anywhere. They sent him to die. Such good friends of his…

A young girl was feeding the chickens. She looked at the beaten doctor, worry coming out of her eyes. The man stopped. His presence scared the chicken away. He opened his mouth to speak. His voice was croaked, and his teeth were stained with the blood he shed. He didn't even attempt to heal himself. He felt undeserving of it.

"What is it, Sarah?" He asked, spewing venom. "You awoke earlier? You wanted to see me in my worst state? Well, here it is!"

He gestured at himself. The girl blinked, clutching a half-eaten apple in her hand, the juice dripping down her chin.

"Well, what is it?!" He yelled at her. Every word he would say hurt him. Those men were brutal. "I know you hate me as much as they do… hell, you must hate me even more. So what are you going to do now? Shoot me?!" He spoke loudly, his brain pounding inside his cranium with anger.

"Get it over with so I can leave! For the love of God, do it quickly!"

The soft wind tussled the girl's frayed locks. Her eyes were fixed on his, her cheek brought out in a long chew. She shook her head as she swallowed the fruit morsel.

"I don't hate you."

The man stood straight, unable to speak. She didn't hate him? But he was so cruel to her, so unkind. If anyone was deserving of hating him, it was her! What kind of game was she playing? Where was she going with this?

Without a word, the girl instructed the doctor to hold his hand out. She presented him with the apple. The fruit was heavy, the sweet juice dripping in the Medic's palm. He teared up for some reason, biting into the smooth skin. With the fruit between his teeth, he looked back at her. She was smiling.

"_Segne dich_…" he said regretfully.

A gunshot was heard and a bullet whooshed between the man and the girl. They looked up. A slim man was sitting on the roof, pointing his sniper rifle at them. The girl waved.

"He doesn't want me talking to you," she said to the doctor. The German sighed.

"Clever man."

With that, he walked away, knowing that he would never see the girl again.

* * *

The Scout was running through the house, breathing heavily and tipping over everything in sight. The couch was turned over, the beds were unmade, and all the bookcases and ammo boxes were emptied. The house looked as if it were hit by a massive tornado. The other men stared at the Bostonian, whose face was red with fear and nausea. They tried speaking to him, but he wouldn't listen to anybody.

"No…" he repeated once more. It wasn't there, either.

"No, no, no, no… He couldn't!" He shouted, running across the house. The Engineer saw him whoosh past him, almost feeling the sweat stains forming on his forehead. He rushed after him.

"What's the matter, boy?" He asked calmly. The boy was breathing heavily, crawling around the floor and inspecting every nook and cranny.

"No, no, no, no…" He yelled and fell on the floor like a puppet, clenching his head, swaying gently from-side-to-side. The Texan was shocked, appalled by this behavior. He took a knee and placed his gloved mechanical hand on the Scout. The cold only made him more scared.

"What is it?" He asked, more sternly this time.

"The…the…" The boy gulped before he finally spat the words out. He did not want them to be true, nobody did. But they were there, and they were horrible.

"The bastard took the Medi-gun!"

A few other members gasped. The Engineer continued to kneel, his grasp on the Bostonian's shoulder becoming tighter and tighter. The Texan's muscles twitched in rage.

"That… idiot!"

"We have another problem," the Spy noted, looking towards the door.

"The Heavy is missing."

* * *

Six dead were laying on the dusty ground, right in front of the Medic. He flinched. They could have killed him. They should have killed him! What kind of a cruel God made His people suffer so, and not give them a chance to die? What force sent these souls to the Oblivion? Why couldn't this force take him with them?

He turned his head back, and there he stood.

The Heavy.

The sun shined behind him as he held his smoking mini-gun in one hand, and the Medi-gun in the other. The Medic's jaw dropped.

"Heavy!" He exclaimed enthusiastically. "You saved me! But… why…how…?"

He reached his arms out to grab his instrument that came flying his way. As his body folded over it to clench it, he almost squished the apple pit inside his pocket. He ran his fingers along the smooth surface of his healing machine. The Russian walked in front of him with a steely expression, stepping over the corpses.

"You keep me alive," he said flatly. "I keep you alive. Was always like that. Will always be like that."

The Medic nodded. He turned on his Medi-gun, and soon, the Heavy was engulfed by its smoky red rays. The Medic managed to smile, though it hurt him much. The two of them were off, leaving Harvest behind in a puff of smoke and a streamline horrible memories. New adventures awaited them. New adventures that would most likely not be brought up. As long as they were together, as long as they protected each other, little really didn't matter to them.

All that mattered today was tomorrow.


	16. The Brawl

It was a hot day in Harvest. The clock was ticking slowly, almost as if the time was melting through the cracks inside the old wooden walls. Having lost their Medic, the group silently anticipated the next massive horde of the Infected. They knew the casualties would be many. With their heads bowed down and their arms crossed, they waited. Their heads only moved up whenever they wanted one final swig of their alcohol, one final taste of life that was.

They expected the upcoming attack on their sanctuary. The news had become intermitted, every time the picture came up on the screen, the anchormen apologized for the technical difficulties. During the times when they were on air, they managed to warn the people about the Infected hordes progressing east. Some were sighted near the outskirts of New York. They had been dealt with, but they could not stop the hordes from amassing. It was only a matter of time before the city was overrun, only a matter of time when the end will come.

Of course, nobody wanted the end to come. Still, they had no choice but to wait for it. The water was becoming thick with blood, almost as thick as syrup. The filter had been tampered with several times. The group luckily had an emergency water supply. There wasn't much of it, but it was enough for them to drink and cook. They had given up on eating cooked food as well, resorting to canned goods. They did not taste as good, but in these horrible times, necessity beat comfort by a landslide.

The door closed with a slam.

Everybody looked at the Sniper, his dirtied clothes, an old sniper rifle and a grim expression over his sleep-deprived face. Large bags were formed just under his eyes and his skin was yellowish. The group did not find that odd. In these circumstances that was a common sight. But the thing that bothered them was the fact that his weapon was hot, the barrel was smoking.

In their daze, they could not even hear the gunshots.

The Spy sighed and pushed himself back up on his small, wooden chair. He blinked heavily at the marksman and clicked his tongue.

"They're here already?"

The Sniper nodded as the Frenchman checked his watch, an act he himself considered comical given the fact that the watch had stopped working two weeks ago.

"I managed to get about ten of 'em, but I guess we'll have to go out and help Engie."

Irene nodded, for the first time not feeling complete disgust towards the man. The group stood up and headed towards the door. The air in the room was pungent, the life evaporated from them and seemed to come back in a strong wave as soon as the Sniper opened the front door and let them outside, into the sunlight.

"Right," The Scout blinked heavily as the light scorched his eyes. He tightened his fingers around his aluminum baseball bat.

"Let's get this over with…"

It was odd. Nobody even cared any more.

Nobody except for the Engineer, restlessly building sentries to fight off the Infected.

* * *

The meager group of seven came up behind the tinkerer, who was upgrading the sentries. Cold sweat was running down his back as he struck the machines, that would then shake and fire a bullet at the Infected who dared come that way. It was excruciating work. The man had already built several sentries alongside the river, and was now nesting between the two largest ones and a dispenser. The mindless creatures ran into the river, some drowning instantly and some swimming towards the surface, only to be struck with a bullet.

At first, the group thought that the tinkered had it under control. But as time progressed, and the number of the Infected grew, it was almost certain that they needed to do something. The water now resembled red gelatin, it lost its former consistency. This allowed the Infected to swim without drowning; the blood of the fallen aided them to the surface and to the other side.

A drop of sweat appeared above the Scout's brow. He spoke.

"This keeps on happenin'…" He gulped. "This will keep on hapenin' forever. I will never see my Ma again. We'll just fight here until we run out of blood."

The Texan watched a bullet strike the water filter as it missed an Infected. He did not mind the damage; the thing was already beyond repair. The only thing he needed to do now was to keep himself alive. He needed to continue on.

For his family.

For his friends.

For Harvest.

A glass bottle broke when a Scot threw it on the hard, dusty ground. That was the last bottle he had. That was the last bottle he was ever going to drink. He wiped off his moist lips with his sleeve and swallowed some tangy saliva. It tasted of metal and alcohol. His grenade launcher was tucked in his hand. Without a word, the team began to prepare their weapons. One at a time, in a sick, twisted concord.

One Infected managed to get past the sentries. One Infected was more than enough. A flame whooshed out of the Pyro's flame thrower.

As the creature burned and ran in unbearable agony, the men came to a silent accord. They were to protect this sanctuary until their last breath. The smell of fire and metal pierced through the air, under the iron sky that looked as if it was burning, a white, fiery death.

It had begun.

The scent of death is oddly sweet. Burning rubber, rotting flesh, charred metal being flung from a smoking barrel… All that topped with the coppery blood left the mercenaries speechless. What has become of them? How could they stand such massacre, this unreasonable killing spree? How could they keep on living like that?

And after all that, how could they enjoy it? How could they consider the scent of death homely? Why did they consider it normal?

More of those creatures crawled through the thick water, their mangled bodies covered in the liquid. It seeped down in long, even drop. Their hair was slicked back. It reminded the Scout of grease, the grease his older brother used to fix up his hair. He hated these creatures, every one of them.

With a loud shriek, he battered one. It fell dead instantly. The buzzing of the chainsaw and the grenades exploding in the distance made Scout recoil from thought of his family that he couldn't help. He couldn't, but he wanted to, and he wanted to so badly.

A sentry was destroyed. A minor sentry, far away from them. It was overcrowded with those creatures. Some were killed; some bashed it with their bare hands until it gave in and crashed into small pieces of molten metal. If one went, others would soon follow. They couldn't take any chances.

The Engineer yelled out a warning, about the incoming Infected. The smaller sentries fell down like dominoes, and the horde was free to make their way towards the men. About a dozen of them approached them. Irene cut them asunder with her chainsaw; the Spy stabbed them in the backs. The Demoman fired his grenades at the one in the back, occasionally yelling out into the distance, towards the base.

He asked the Soldier to come and help them.

This was no time for sympathy. This was no time to explain the American's death. They continued to fight. Without the Medic, every drop of blood mattered. They fought like animals, every single one of them.

The Pyro tried to send back the Infected, to push them away. The rising orange flames burnt their tattered clothes, wisps of grey smoke leaving their bodies. The creatures tried to fight; some would even manage a punch, a kick, a blow to the head. But all was futile, as the wounded mercenaries knew that they were fighting for much. And one life of a conscious being was worth a thousand of theirs… wasn't it?

The Sniper broke out his Kukri after he had been left without a single bullet. He fought his way through the crowd, slashing their throats. He ran up to the dispenser, stocking up. The Engineer manned the sentries, firing up into the filter. This time they weren't missing. This time, the Infected tried to climb the contraption.

The Sniper leaned on the dispenser and panted loudly, a trail of blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. The Texan removed his fogged-up goggles.

"How many of 'em…?" The Australian asked, struggling to breathe. The Engineer threw the protective gear on the ground in anger.

"Too many… I think around two-hundred."

The word made the marksman's head ache. He gulped and grabbed his reloaded weapon. He aimed for the creatures atop the large canister.

One of them did an odd thing. It placed its hands on the large, metal pipe atop the metal case. Grunting and yelling, it tugged at it until the metal began breaking, cracking as it was being torn apart.

With a victorious shriek, the Infected pulled out the lead pipe, curved at the top. The corrosion stained its hands, leaving thin, orange powder on his fingers. It lifted the pipe up into the air, not feeling the bullets penetrate its flesh.

It ran and jumped, far up into the iron sky.

The Scot finished off another smaller group of the Infected, wondering how long he could keep this up. He noticed a shadow, cupping him. It was spreading around him, an ominous circle. He turned around and looked up into the air. He saw an Infected, his tongue sticking out, wielding a lead pipe.

It was not the metal that made the blow. The soles f the creature's shoes made the fatal impact.

The Scot fell on the ground, and was soon trampled over. He reached his hand out, a soft light falling over his eyes, while the iron sky continued to burn.

"_Solly…_" he muttered with his last, dying breath. "_There ya are…_"

And just like that, it was seven against two hundred and nineteen.

"DEMO!" The Scout shrieked in horror, before he struck another Infected. It fell on the ground, but the Scout was numb to its impact.

He was gone. Another man was gone, just like that.

Suddenly, the Scout found himself alone. Shots fired and the Infected were cut in half, felling around him. He could not see his group. They ran away from the filter, afraid of getting killed by the leaping creatures. He was behind hounded by those…those… monsters!

They stared at him, hungry for his flesh and blood. He would not give it to them. He spat in front of a couple of them, to show distaste. He was about to strike, but then, he heard a scream.

It was coming from the Pyro.

The Pyro was pushed into the bloody water, struggling to stay afloat. An Infected pushed it. It screamed, but its screams were muffled by its optical mask. Everything was slow at that moment. They Scout could see the particles of dust floating around him; he could see the Infected's stale breath. The Pyro's gloved finger appeared on the surface. It held it up, begging for help. The water dragged it down, pushing the heavy suit deep into the murky muck. It struggled to swim, but in the end, the finger sank down.

The Pyro did not rise up again. The Scout looked at the water, swaying on the surface. The boy wanted to cry. He wanted to scream.

He could not lose his best friend.

A sharp stab of pain went through his body as he felt his body break. He yelled loudly and moved up his baseball bat over his head.

The Infected came forward, but he fought them off, when one stepped forward he swung his bat. When he felt another man's breath on his back, he would turn and strike him sideways. They all fell, becoming small mounds of corpses. The Scout felt nothing. Nothing but pure anger. They kept him away from his home; they weren't going to take away his friend.

The Infected moved towards the Bostonian, slaying the creatures. The group tried to fight, tried to aid him, but it was unnecessary. The Infected had to climb over the greasy faces of the others just to get close to the boy, to get a glimpse of their demise. In a circle, that one boy fought the creatures off. One fell, two fell down. It wasn't enough. He wanted them all gone.

The men stared in awe as the horde began to thin. They shot the Infected in the back. As they fell, they pushed down the creatures up front, making them easier to kill. The Bostonian performed his dance of death, determined to end this horde before they took away another life.

The fight lasted for roughly three minutes. But in that heat, in those Bostonian's eyes, it lasted forever.

The last one fell.

Breathing heavily and standing up tall, the Bostonian clenched his blood-stained baseball bat and dropped it to the side. All was quiet, save the babbling brook. The Scout looked at its red surface.

"PYRO!"

The Bostonian ran as fast as a leopard, jumping over the bodies. He heard a shout, a warning; he did not seem to notice it. He dived into the lake. The thick water ran deep, deeper than he imagined. The blood painted the water a soft red, but he could still see clearly. He stretched out his arms as he ran, his cheeks wide with all the air he held in. Moss and algae blocked his path; he moved them out of his face. But the blood and dark, grimy algae stuck to his body, until he couldn't even move. He panicked, looking at the red in front of him. It looked like a piece of cloth.

It was the Pyro, it must have been!

He pulled his hands out and grabbed the patch of red. It was a lot of deadweight, he pulled up the body, but his feeble arms fell to his side. The body began moving towards the deep end. They boy tried to scream, but couldn't move his face. And screaming there meant the same fate for him as for the Pyro.

He lifted up the Pyro, bringing it upwards. Tears formed in his eyes as he kicked towards the sun. The struggled to move through the thick blood just at the surface. The redness went into his eyes, but he continued to grip the Pyro. He gripped the red cloth for dear life.

He gasped when he reached the surface. The loud gasp startled the men looking down at him, from the surface. The Bostonian felt the actual weight of the Pyro. He dragged him to the surface, the heavy water sticking against his body. He couldn't breathe. At one point, he almost fainted into the water, but the Sniper and the Engineer took him by the arms and helped him up. The Bostonian dragged the Pyro's body to the surface.

When it landed on the ground, facing the dirt, the Scout didn't even bother to flip him over. It was done. Hot tears streamed down his face. His best friend was gone.

Suddenly he envied the Demoman. He was never aware of this. He lived out the rest of his days in ignorance. He didn't have to suffer like this. The Scout wailed and dropped on his knees. The corpses seemed to pile around him. They almost smothered him.

With another scream he fell on his friend, long, painful sobs leaving his throat.

The horde was defeated. At what cost? Two lives and a young boy's sanity.

Irene turned white as snow, pointing at the Bostonian. She gasped and hid her mouth with the palm of her other hand.

"Scout," she whispered through the barrier of her own flesh; "Your arm."

The Bostonian looked up at the woman, red-eyed. He slowly moved his wet arm. There was a swelling just above the elbow. His gaze focused on it. It was a large, bluish swelling. Liquid dripped down a small hole in the middle, but it wasn't blood. It was transparent and clear, like a strange poison. Small, red dots surrounded the bulge atom his skin. His stomach tightened.

"Scout…" The Engineer took off his hard hat and squinted at the boy with a grave expression.

"You have been bitten."

The Scout's mouth opened slightly. His heart began to race; he could feel the blood in his cheeks. He gasped, trying to swab off the liquid, as if it would make a difference.

"No." He said, mostly to himself. "No, no, no, no!"

He stood up, looking at the wound.

"This isn't happening!" He said, looking at his teammates. "There's gotta be a way to fix this…" Tears flew from his eyes, tears of panic. He gestured to the corpses of the fallen Infected, piled atop one another like dogs.

"I am not one of 'em!"

The men gingerly looked at the Texan. He wiped off some sweat from his forehead and tapped his foot.

"Look, if the poison got in your system it's…it's irreversible!"

"Well hold on a sec!" The boy shouted, angered by his colleagues. "Who says I'm bitten?! I rubbed up against all kinds-a crap down there! This might have been from my own bat, or… Or a reaction from the water we've been drinking!" He gestured to the murky blood, filling the river bank. He was becoming desperate. "I feel fine! I-I-...I didn't even feel nothin'! Maybe... maybe the poison hasn't even gotten through!"

Dell hopelessly looked around the field. His companions all shot him the same look of pity. They did not want the Scout to become one of them. But they did not want him to be killed, either. All those eyes stared into his soul, with one simple plea.

_Do something._

The Texan swallowed some hot spin, still trying to recover from what had just happened. He looked at the Scout's marking. It was fairly small. Maybe it was some sort of scrap. Maybe it was just a bump. But there was no way to know for sure. They would need to run tests to find out, and they had no time or equipment.

The Engineer looked down at his boots, almost ashamed of his proposal.

"Maybe we could put you in quarantine."

The Scout's eyes widened. He completely forgot about the battle. All he cared about was the fact that he could become an Infected. The Engineer scratched behind his ear.

"We'll put you in somewhere where you can't hurt anybody. We'll come and check on you. If you're fine, we'll let you back. If ya ain't…"

The Scout seemed irritated by this proposal.

"So what, you're gonna just… lock me up?" He spat out the words. "I'm a human fucking being, I deserve some respect!"

"And we deserve not to get killed!" The Engineer snapped. The Scout was silenced. The others looked at the Engineer skeptically, as the man shook his head and maybe even wished that he could just shoot the boy and get it over with.

"It's either that, or the gun."

The Scout shifted his weight and observed the bump on his arm.

"How much time do I have to be locked up until you let me out?"

The Engineer shrugged, his head bowed down.

"Three weeks. Most of the transformations take place by three weeks time. If you get through that window, maybe you are clear."

The group looked at the Bostonian, more specifically, his wound. He smiled nervously.

"No…" He lifted his arm up, a small chuckle escaping him before he could finish his sentence. The liquid coming from the mark on his skin glistened on the sunlight. Everything was quiet, the calm after the terrible, devastating storm. The sky stopped being a radiant white, and now turned a softer shade, though the white color stayed. It was going to rain soon. The Scout spread his lips into a sad smile. Three weeks. That was such a long period of time. Three weeks before they decide whether to kill him or not.

"No pressure, huh?"


	17. The Wait

The Engineer stood over the dead Pyro's body, cold and rigid. A full day has passed from yesterday's slaughter, and his body was still above the ground, unburied. The Engineer kept it like that, maybe due to the fear of touching the creature's alien body, and maybe due to his own curiosity. He always wondered about that creature. As a man of science, things that he couldn't comprehend irritated him to no end. The mumbling abomination was no exception. Though the creature had helped him battle against countless Spies, he still wondered. What was behind that mask? What made it tick? The only thing more terrifying than the Pyro was the urge the Engineer was feeling.

The incredible, painful urge to take off the Pyro's mask.

He took off his industrial glove and let the thing fall down on the dusty ground in a flash of yellow. He looked at his fingers, calloused from the endless hours of building and plucking the metal guitar strings.

He pressed his middle finger against his thumb, remembering the soft, smooth sounds his instrument made. He wanted to bring it in here, into the base. But sadly, he couldn't. The guitar did not qualify as a necessity.

He released his fingers as a soft smile came across his face. Why was he thinking about his guitar? Why, as he stood over his beloved colleagues dead body, pondering whether or not to remove his mask. Maybe it was a way of coping with death. His mind would jump to the first thought that came to mind and focus on it, no matter how irrelevant it might have been. Maybe it was how all people reacted when somebody died. Nobody wanted to think about it, so they simply chose not to.

The Demoman was a perfect example. He did not think of the American's death. He was not even aware of it.

Dell moved his head slightly, aware of his train of thoughts going astray. He suddenly felt incredibly guilty.

How could he keep the group together if he couldn't even keep his thoughts together?

Slowly, the tips of his fingers ran across the optical mask, wondering what lied underneath it. What kind of man would hide his face from the people he worked with, and even sometimes depended on? What kind of man… if it was a man.

"Truckie?"

The Engineer convulsed a little as he heard the recognizable raspy voice. He quickly turned his head to the marksman, not realizing that his hands were still on the mask. He pulled them away, wiping the drops of water against his aged overalls. The water on his fingers felt like blood. It left small, burgundy imprints. The Sniper kneeled by the Engineer side, looking down at the deceased Pyro.

"So…" he began, not knowing if he even wanted to continue that sentence. The Demoman was recently buried next to the Soldier's remains; the Scout was locked in a shed. It wasn't exactly high-security, but it was enough to keep him isolated until…

The thought of the Bostonian becoming one of them sent shivers down their spines. It was ironic in way, there was so much to talk about, but right now, they could only sit there, under the white, grim sky. It was almost too clear that nobody would speak.

The cold cooled down the men, falling over their sweat-stained clothes that were beginning to dry off. Even the small droplets over the Pyro's suit were becoming minuscule, and it wouldn't be long before they evaporated.

The Engineer watched with narrowed eyes as the Sniper moved his gloved hand across the Pyro's face. It felt unnatural, to see that strange, fixated obsession in his eyes, the same obsession that occupied him only moments ago. The Sniper slowly tucked his finger under the brim of the rubber mask. The Engineer's eyes cracked open.

"What-… what're ya doing?" He asked, a part of him hoping that they had the same intentions.

The marksman did not respond for several seconds. He let out a sigh, a self-analyzing sigh a person would release moment before he did something he would regret for a lifetime. His throat felt dry, as though he were swallowing cotton.

"Look, Tex…" He started, lowering his head. "We've been here a while. What happened today, it's… it's a tragedy, ya know? But... I can't live… knowing that this'll expect us on a daily basis. I know that this makes me a bad person… a horrible person."

The Texan nodded when the Sniper looked his way.

"I just need something to think about. Other than this. Just for a little while… And if… if removing the mask is what'll take…"

The man stopped talking as the mechanic grasped the mask on the other end. The Sniper looked confused at first, but then tightened his grip on the mask. He could almost feel the Pyro's skin, cold and raw.

"Count of three?" The Texan suggested. Though the sharpshooter smiled at the simplicity of the Pyro's revelation, he nodded and turned back to the optical mask. He was nervous; who knew what lied on the other side?

Seasons seemed to change before the Engineer reached the number three. At one point, the Sniper wanted to pull off the mask without warning. The next second, he wanted to run away, regretting this idea. But now, as the third number popped into the air, dispersing into a mere order, he had to pull through. He couldn't live on if he didn't.

"Three," said the Engineer a bit louder.

The mask was peeled off slowly, agonizingly so. As the ends were slid across the Pyro's chin, a pungent aroma of sweat and ashes filled their nostrils. They both recoiled but kept going. The mask moved upwards, soon revealing the mess of redness and blonde hair, which appeared to be welded into the burnt face.

The mask was tossed away, and the two looked at the monster they discovered.

It was a man.

The man's face was burnt into ashes, his nose completely gone, only a small mound left. His lips were pale, at least the parts that did not fall off. The cheeks were sunken and the flesh was red and raw, it chafed when the mask was tugged off. Some of the rubber remained; the mask had already begun to take over the face. The particles of new skin began to grow into the mask. Strangely enough, there was a noticeable lack of blood. The man stared at them with his dry, grayish-blue eyes, dry as bones. His mouth was open, only slightly. He was caught in surprise. He would have never expected this to happen.

The two mercenaries stared at their disfigured colleague. They had always known that something was wrong with him, but they did not know how bad it was. But there was something even more odd, something that made the blood from their face disappear, and their hearts to beat at an astounding rate.

This man… they knew him.

"_Him…_" Dell said in a daze.

Mundy looked at him briefly.

"This is the man…" Dell gulped, "The man who employed me… the man who recruited me… Oh, God."

He grabbed his stomach and crumpled himself into a ball. Mundy looked at the doctor he recognized, not in shock, but in anger. He had the strength to stand up. He did, continuing to stare at the body while the Engineer struggled to regain his breath.

"I can't…" He said, slowly getting up. He swayed, he was disoriented. Crossing his heart, he looked at the marksman.

"I can't…" He turned to the marksman, his eyes showing a plea before he even said a word.

"You take care of it… him."

He did not need to tell Mundy that 'taking care of' meant burying. But Mundy had no desire to bury this thing. Though it now had a face, it was still a monster, and it was a monster because of the foul face. The Engineer stumbled into the house, and Mundy stayed. He stayed, hovering an inch above this creature that took his freedom away from him, that forced him to work in this wretched institution.

A drop of sweat rolled down his temple as he recalled that day, that dreadful day. His fists were clutched and his body stiff, his breath was as tangy as the flames before his mind.

* * *

"_As soon as you step out into the field, the girl and all of her belongings will be returned to their rightful place. Her baggage, her camera, every earthly possession. You just be a good little employee, and we will not let a single hair fall off her pretty little head."_

_The last words were said with a hint of ridicule. Mundy growled at the doctor, who now grabbed his lifeless hand and shook it. Pins and needles surged through the marksman's body as the hand was being squeezed and shook._

"_Oh, and in case I haven't introduced myself," the doctor said through a wicked grin; _

"_My name is Doctor Laszlo."_

* * *

In a blinding rage, Mundy kicked the heavy body with a yell that echoed around the base. He breathed slowly and through his teeth, looking at the man's- the monster's back. Once he had regained the last fragments of his composure, his ears perked up, and he was listening to the deafening, echoing silence. His eyes lingered on the dusted tip of his shoe. He then remembered that this monster was no longer alive. This monster, no matter how much trouble it gave him, was his teammate. A favorite teammate at times. And he had just defiled his body further, kicking him in the dirt.

It was the lowest point of his miserable life.

His temples pulsated, making him press the skin down, begging for relief. Twisting his thin, agile fingers, he slowly made his way south. The Scout was south, secluded in a dirty, grimy shed. If he couldn't have enough decency to bury a teammate, Sniper mused, he would have enough decorum to help out another one in his hour of need.

He no longer thought about dying. At least that thought liberated him.

* * *

Emily Payne was on the screen again. She ran around the small studio, a large door behind her shut with many a hammered down boards. The lights were shut off, all except one bulb that hung above her. She looked at it, her eyes watery and confused. The luminance made her large green eyes twinkle, each spark then rolling down her cheek.

"_They're here…" _she said while the image flickered. Wind whooshed through the broken windows. The girl looked into the camera.

"_They're here… the Infected are real, and they're here in New York. I…"_ She looked down at her shoes, the sequin stilettos with the heels broken off. She kicked an empty bottle of scotch with her right foot, and it fell to the dusty floor. The impact did not break the bottle, but it did emit a shrill tune.

"_I lied to you. But you must know, they made me lie, I didn't know!" _She fluttered her hand over her chest. Her nostrils flared, but were brought down to their original size when she gulped.

"_My… my broadcasts will still be playing… the camera switches on automatically. And I will speak, not for your sake, but for mine. I will get through this. But don't ever listen to me, my darlings. I lied to you. I have failed you…"_

Her hands crossed over her stomach as her face turned pale. She gave the camera one last look, begging for forgiveness in silent desperation.

"_I'm so sorry…"_

The Spy switched off the television screen and headed towards the veranda.

* * *

The stars flickered across the night sky, covered in smoke that came from the campfire. The battered German looked up at it in awe, perfunctorily picking at the heated beans inside an aluminum can. He hadn't had the stomach to eat that day. In fact, his appetite seemed to vanish completely. His travelling companion, a large Russian man, had already eaten his meal, stolen from an abandoned market a little ways up the road. He was now cleaning his minigun with a small rag that he pulled out of his back pants pocket.

"Something wrong, doctor?" The man asked, worry in his eyes. The German flew out of his entranced state with a jolt. He looked to the Heavy and gave an insincere smile.

"No, no… it's quite alright."

"You seem worried."

The man really was worried, though he would never say it. Over the past couple of weeks, his companion and he were making their way across the Infected land at a snail's pace. They always managed to find enough ammo to defend themselves, and thanks to the Medi-gun, they were virtually impossible to defeat. But the Medic feared that they would be doomed to roam the dusty lands forever, waiting to die. He missed his old team, even though he was shunned by the vast majority of it. He missed Harvest, where he worked and fought and sent off a dear friend. His wife Natasha was also missed, and dearly so.

But most of all, he missed the land as it once was, calm and Infected-free. If one's life was taken away, it would be from a hand of an equally insane human being, and not some Infected abomination.

The orange flames cracked atop the timber they had gathered, the smoke bellowed out into the depths of the unreachable heights. The grey clouds would shift and dance in the wind, twisting into thinner strips. The Medic's brow furrowed.

"Heavy," he started; "Do you think there is a place that is safe from those monsters?"

The Heavy was silent, pocketing the small rag, Sasha still resting on his thighs. The German sighed and put aside the half-empty can. His cold hands ran over his stubbled face. The swelling was coming down, but his right eye still had a bit of a shiner. The Medi-gun was good, but marks would remain, small, almost invisible bumps and scars.

"There might be," Heavy said dryly before looking up, almost amused by the Medic's look of interest.

"You know of such a place?" He asked, slowly scooting over the dirt and closer to him. "Tell me!"

"It isn't from a very reliable source, mostly some tidbits that I've picked up from the small clan of Survivors we came across on the road. It might only be a myth…"

"Men need myths on occasion. And it's only a myth until proven otherwise!" The Medic said in an order that bordered with a desperate plea. The Heavy looked at the smaller man, his gaze stopping on the broken lens of his round spectacles. He released a long sigh.

"Very well."

His body arched towards the doctor, who listened to the man intently. The Russian giant made slow movements with his left hand, trying to emphasize the words that flew out of his mouth. His tone was slightly lighter, he himself was anxious to tell of the place.

"Word has it that there is a place so secluded from the world that no trouble can get to it. It sits over high mountains, the folk there are kind and humble. There were no Infected ever in sight! Not a single one! Its pastures are green and pure, and there is not a disfigured soul among its people."

The Medic listened to the tale of the mystical land, enthralled by it.

"They are completely secluded? Not a single Infected can get there?"

"It hasn't yet."

"Tell me," the Medic cried eagerly, his eyes glistening in the night; "What's the name of this magnificent land?"

The Heavy looked at the doctor with a small smile.

"Ukraine."

* * *

Irene leaned over the fence, staring at the shed. The poor Bostonian was in there for just under three weeks already. Her husband was visiting him that day. She visited him three days ago. He seemed quite alright, albeit a little bit jittery and sensitive to light. She thought that it was due to cabin fever. She was getting a taste of it herself. Every day seemed to pass a little bit slower, every hour dripped away with the speed of a slug.

The Spy appeared behind her, reaching into his pants pocket to take his pack of cigarettes. He stood next to her and they greeted each other, each with a short, almost curt nod.

The milky stars spread across the darkness, each a small eye on the large navy-blue beast. The wind was soft and cool, tangling the long, wheat locks of Irene's hair. She clutched the rail of the fence and leaned back, letting the stream of the air caress her. Closing her eyes, she felt the tangy smoke cling to her thin lashes. She fluttered them at the cigarette. The Spy noticed her longing gaze.

"Do you smoke, Irene?" He asked, presenting her with the box. He did not want to waste his precious supply, but he was always a gentleman at heart. It was almost his duty to offer it to her. The woman reached out one of her calloused hands.

"I did…"

The fervid flame of the lighter stretched to the cigarette tucked in between her lips. She inhaled as soon as the blue streak reached it, setting it aflame.

The two took a drag in almost a perfect unison, savoring the tangy aroma, possibly the last of its kind. The flavor stretched into their lungs, filling them up with immense satisfaction, the smoke was released in a milky cloud, and the streaks intertwined, flying up into the air. Irene had forgotten about smoking. She was preoccupied with other affairs. She looked at the withering excuse of a garden. It required more work than it provided, and the thought of this made Irene chuckle. The Spy looked at her, politely asking for an explanation.

"Oh…" She chuckled and moved a strand of lifeless hair behind her ear. "Nothin'. I was just thinking… I was just thinking how hopeless this whole thing is."

The Spy quirked up an eyebrow, still balancing his cigarette between his fingers.

"And that made you laugh?" He asked sardonically. Irene shook her head while a rush of embarrassment flew over her.

"It's just… the way we live, you know? It's no way to be. I mean," she said quickly, looking at him: "We all pretend like there's still a chance that we'll make it through. We still pretend that half of us aren't dead, gone already! We pretend, and for what?"

Pressing her wrist on her hip, she leaned over the fence once more. Lighting a cigarette, she looked deep into the stars above. In the distance, she saw a shadow of her husband, a shadow of a man who still had hope, unlike her. It was only a matter of time before his grit withers away. A dense puff flew out of Irene's mouth and spread across the air.

"How long do we have to live… fueled by these lies? We thought Emily was a liar for denying the existence of the Infected, but are we also liars, denying the possibility of them destroying us?"

The Spy inched towards the woman, just after he put out the fallen cigarette with the sole of his shoe. He dragged his foot across the wooden boards, and they left an ashy trail. Irene sighed.

"It's hopeless."

She was left speechless when the masked assassin grabbed her by the shoulders, facing her towards him. Her lips parted and she gasped when he brought himself near her face. She could see the small greenish dot in the corner of his left eye, she smelt the tanginess of his nicotine-laced breath, the stubble around his lips, the frays of his suit, and the touch of his hands- his ungloved hands- on her bare, shivering forearms. A couple of brownish marks were on the surface of his hands, they almost looked like faded cigarette burns. She saw the dry skin, the small, speckled blemishes. She saw it all. She felt it all.

"Listen Irene," he commanded, squeezing her arms and commanding her to pay attention: "I will not have you, or anyone else, speak like that. The situation is bleak, I am fully aware of that, but this is the time when we must hope, we must! It's not over yet, and though there are a few of us, we must pull through! The price we pay now is nothing compared to what those things could do to us if we succumb, if we give up! I will not let you speak such-"

* * *

"_- nonsense, Adrien! This is not the time to lose faith! This is the time to hope, to dream! False hope or not, if it gets us up in the morning, it has fulfilled its duty!"_

_Adrien looked at his mentor, talking with more passion than ever before. His tone was thunderous, determined, and oddly frightening. His thin, bony fingers dug into his arms, and his gaze was fixed on the boy's red eyes, his wet, matted eyebrows._

"_They don't win when they kill one man, they win when we decide to let them! Cowering is craven, losing hope is obtuse! If you can't hold your head up high, I'll hold it up until you can, but never, EVER bow it down in sorrow like you did just now! They win when you do!"_

_He looked away for a moment, one brief moment, no doubt thinking about the woman who told him this exact speech._

"_Why?" Adrien asked, blinking away the salt from his eyes. "Why are you so determined to pull through this? N-n-nobody else is."_

* * *

Irene's eyes connected with the Spy's and demanded an answer, in their own pathetic little way.

"Because," the Frenchman said, gulping down some saliva: "Because we can. I know we can."

Iren felt herself becoming limp in his arms. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and allowed the smoke and musk to fill her nostrils before she sighed. As she opened them wide, she nodded determinedly.

"Thank you, Spy. We will."

The two stayed in that pose, their arms wrapped around each other and their faces dangerously close. They watched each other with narrowed, droopy eyes. She felt the steadiness of his heartbeat; he noticed her controlled breathing on his neck. They remained like that for a second, a minute, an hour, it didn't matter. They were two lost souls, finally finding themselves, using the other person as a foundation. Irene's lips parted as she saw his move. But instead of touching hers, his lips moved back and made a sound.

"Good night, Irene."

He let go of her, and she stayed alone. Glassy eyed and dazed, she walked behind him. Through the back door, up the staircase, in front of her bedroom door. She let the Frenchman walk past her when she bumped into her husband, wiping the sweat off his hands onto his jeans.

"Well," he began as he noticed her eager gaze: "The boy's holdin' up… can't say how well, though. If nothing happens in a week, we'll let him out. Until then, I just hope the lil' feller can make it through. I also managed to clean the filter of all chicken bones, so we'll have clean water if noth-"

Irene stopped him mid-sentence, wrapping her long arms around his neck and lowering herself down to his level, pressing her lips against his and grabbing on, as though he would soon float away. Dell did not mind. Though confused, he opened the bedroom door.

Strangely, Irene was the one to toss her spouse on the bed. He took off his belt and was just about to take off his shirt when Irene yelled out.

"Stop!" She shouted when Dell was halfway through taking his shirt off, the thin fabric covering his face and holding his arms above his head. "That's perfect."

She closed her eyes and moaned while rubbing against the cotton sticking to her husband's stubble and letting herself think that she was somewhere else, tenderly caressing a balaclava.

* * *

Sarah grew tired with the squeaking upstairs. Those rats must have been back. They moved through the floorboards, first slowly, then quickly, then slowly again. Now their pace alternated, the squeaks were only becoming louder, and occasionally, she could even hear a thump. It reminded her of that one time she hit her head against her headboard when she jumped into bed one night.

Come to think of it, that was exactly what those bumps sounded like. But if rats bumped into headboards twelve times in a row, those were really stupid rats.

She twisted and turned in her bed, kicking the sheets of her. Slamming her legs against the lumpy mattress she pulled her pillow over her head and stuffed it in her face. The creaking was still audible, though not very much. It was still quite irritable, and the conclusion that she wouldn't get any sleep that night made her throw the pillow on the floor with a sharp exhale. She stared at the ceiling with her arms folded over her chest. She had remained like that for the approximate of three seconds before craning her body to the side and taking one lingering step towards the floorboards.

Once she was up, she squinted towards the window, the smudged, sealed window, letting in nothing but the dim light of the few stars twinkling across the midnight sky. On the yellowish grass of their field, she saw the shed. No doubt the Scout was in there, pacing around as usual. She rubbed under her eye with the tip of her knuckle and cracked her shoulders back. Her back immediately felt ten pounds lighter. Satisfied with her newfound flexibility, she moved her neck from-side-to-side, still keeping a steady eye on the wooden shed.

The rats still scampered upstairs. Poor Scout, she thought to herself. Dealing with those pesky things is hard enough on its own. She couldn't imagine the poor boy, trying to fight them off while secluded in a cold, damp shed. He had enough on his mind at this time. Being bitten, all he could do was wait and hope that the Infection doesn't strike him. No wonder he was edgy the last time she had visited him.

Not wanting to spend another second in her room, the girl got on all fours and slid her right hand under her bed. She made a strenuous effort to reach into the dust, bullets and cans of soup before she finally grabbed her gun and the Sniper's borrowed Kukri. She slid it towards her, sighing as her face beamed with triumph.

Putting the weapons in the heavy leather holster that she later strapped around her waist, she ran downstairs into the kitchen. The snoring coming from the rooms suggested that all of the survivors were fast asleep. She huffed at their idleness and scurried into the kitchen. With a swift grab, she took a can of peas in her small hand and went outside. The man had to have something to eat, after all. Bringing him a can of food could be her excuse for visiting him.

She swung the back door open. Screeches and screams echoed through her ears when the darkness shrouded her. A flock of magpies flung their wings and flew up into the sky. Sarah covered her face for fear of scratches, peaking through her fingers at the flock of jet-black birds. They continued to shriek, no life in their dull, reddish eyes. They flew around the sky, creating a perfect circle around the bright, silver moon. It was full that night, full and ominous. Sarah did not let this unsettling image alarm her. Still, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of her gun. A sigh escaped her lips when she reminded herself that she could always shoot the birds down.

She walked slowly, ignoring the birds' howls of warning.

The grass seemed to crunch under her feet that slid across the dry, cold ground that held the bodies of three of their men. She imagined them buried under her, reaching their arms out while bugs crawled inside their eye sockets and out of their mouths, agape and hoping to catch that last reviving breath but failing to do so. Their bodies were most likely cold by now, and beginning to rot. The little girl gulped. She did not want that to happen to Scout.

The exordium of his transformation did not occur yet, she hoped. She wished that it never would. She looked around; though most of the trees grew fruit to feed them, from certain angles they seemed barren. Their naked, dark brown branches stretched out like the cold, bony fingers of an axe-wielding killer. A few magpies settled on the branches, but hastily flew away when the wind began to stream, making a whistling sound. Sarah rubbed her shoulder with her clutched fist, noticing how cold it was.

_Craaaa-zy…_

_Toys in the attic, I am_

_Craaaa-zy…_

For a few more minutes, the length of her trip only long because of her reluctance to continue on, she stopped in front of the shed. She gulped and took the brassy handle. Small, coppery dust spread across her hands.

She opened the heavy door with a creak. They moved an inch at a time; the girl pushed herself against them just to squeeze herself inside. Poking her head through the small opening she had made, she perused the emptiness of the shed, excluding the rat that scurried away from the corner and through her feet. She held back her gasp when she felt its long tail around her ankle. Hot saliva streamed through her throat, her last attempt to calm herself down. She opened her mouth to speak ad looked at the stream of moonlight, breaking in through a small crack on the old, wooden roof. The ghastly noise that sounded like weak singing made her nervous. And there it rang again.

_Craaaa-zy…_

_Toys in the attic, I am_

_Craaaa-zy…_

"H-h-hello?" She asked her voice silent and cracking. She could see small marks on the walls. They were abrasions, all spelling out words that she couldn't read well in the darkness.

"Scout?" She asked. "Are you alright?"

The boy appeared before her.

His manifestation was horrifying.

And the girl's scream that ensued just a mere minute later was calamitous.


	18. The Voice

**A/N: **I am sorry for updating this so quickly. I was excited, that's all.

With apologies to Stephen King and Roger Waters.

* * *

So that was it, then. One bite was all it took. One bite and you were branded a monster, an unstable monster that needed to be observed, feared, but most importantly, secluded from the Survivors. The swelling on the Scout's hand was becoming an icy orange, large black spots around it. He couldn't tell if those were bruises or the markings of the venom that could spread through his body. There have been cases, certain cases, where the venom did not work. Some people were immune.

Some, but not everyone.

Fearing for his life, the Scout clenched himself into a corner of the old, wooden shed. He looked around; he saw spare weapons and sawdust. A spider's web hung right above him. No flies entered the shed, and if they did, the spotted spider would pounce on them in its own raging hunger. He wouldn't even wait until they were in the net. The young Bostonian gulped. The spider could be him in three weeks. He could turn on his own teammates. He did not want that to happen. After the deaths of their team members, and the exile of the traitors, they had to stick together. If there was anything he could do to protect the group, he would do it. Even if it meant spending a little under a month inside a rickety tool shed.

Better safe than sorry.

(_Keep telling yourself that._)

The Texan left him alone a little over an hour ago. The Scout did not fidget as much as one would expect him to. He was too frightened to move. His body became rigid in hopes of delaying the poison that could be rushing through his veins. But every second seemed to pass so slowly. Minutes became hours, hours became days, and the young Bostonian would have lost track of time completely if it weren't for his teammates' regular visits. They checked up on his once every three to four hours, giving him food and water, checking to see if he was alright.

But the schedule was changed when the Australian walked in, two hours before he was supposed to. The Scout looked at him in puzzlement as he scratched a small tally mark on the wall of his new, dusty home. Through the dense darkness, the Bostonian could not make out the man's troubled features. When the slim assassin opened the door, a stream of irritating light came inside and seemed to burn the boy's eyes. He covered them, sheltering his precious vision much like a small child would.

"Scout?" The Sniper asked, quickly closing the door. "You alright in here?"

The Scout lowered his hands and shot an angry gaze at the assassin, feeling as if he were mocking him. He stood up, his knees weak from all the sitting.

"No, I'm not alright! I'm stuck here! I might not be around here tomorrow and there's nothing I can do about it! So no, Snipes, I'm not freakin' alright! Ya hear me?!"

The tall Australian nodded, slightly calmer due to the fact that the Scout still acted sane for the time being. But the boy's steely gaze did not leave the man, who seemed much paler and tenser than before. He averted his eyes, running his fingers over the dusty shelves and taking the small items into his hands and twisting them, observing them in the darkness and putting them back in their place. He would then repeat the process, not wanting to look at the boy. The Scout narrowed his eyes and stood straight as he spoke to him. As his spine stretched, it seemed to crack.

"Sniper, are… are you okay?"

"Huh?" The Australian asked before he returned to looking at another small object, this time a small empty bullet shell. "Ah, it's… it's nothing."

"Are ya sure? You look kinda… worked up."

What was he supposed to tell the boy who was on the verge of a mental breakdown. The slightest disruption could trigger the poison; the slightest twitch could mess with his senses. He was not going to tell him about the Pyro's identity. This did not concern the boy, especially not after the havoc that took place one day ago. The Sniper swallowed a lump in his throat and spoke, his voice raspy and breaking.

"It's… it's nothing. Sweet nothing. Sweet Fanny Adams," he said, the words of denial sounding like a joke in the end. But it was a joke without a punch line that could not amuse anybody, and only fooled the comedian into thinking it was amusing.

The Scout tilted his head to the side, now not minding the lack of explanation, but curious about the phrase used.

"Sweet… Fanny Adams? What does that mean?"

"Basically nothing," the Sniper said. The Scout groaned in annoyance.

"Come on, tell me!"

"I told you, it really means 'basically nothing'!" The Australian snapped, turning to him.

"Well, uh… why don't you just say that? Why the hell do ya even use that phrase? Who's Fanny Adams?"

The Sniper chuckled briefly and then stood silent.

"Ya know… I know where the expression came from, but I never really thought about it. It's a bit… morbid, actually. It ain't sweet at all."

"Tell me, tell me!" The Scout said and sat on the cold ground. From that angle, in the darkness, he resembled a small child begging an older person to tell him a bedtime story. The tall marksman lifted up his shoulders and began telling the tale he heard when he was a small kid. He could have heard it from his Gran. He could have read it in a book. The latter would be more likely. He had a tendency to come across strange books.

"Right," he started. "So there was this girl, right? Her name was Fanny Adams. She was about eight or so, really young actually."

"Uh-huh."

"Anyway, one day she was killed and her body was thrown into this river or… something."

The Scout jolted up, not quite expecting the story to go in that direction so fast. Nevertheless, he continued listening to the man.

"A while later, a company started producing this canned mutton for the British Navy…"

"Uh… mutton?"

"Old sheep."

"Ah," the Scout responded, sticking his tongue out and grimacing, never being a fan of sheep, chopped up or otherwise. The Australian could make out his expression.

"They didn't like it either," he said through a chuckle. "Out of a joke -please note that the Navy had a very sick sense of humor back then- out of a joke they started to call the mutton the minced remains of Fanny Adams. And soon the expression took on, and it represented something worthless."

"Huh. That's kinda… sad. Poor Fanny. She didn't deserve to die just so people could reduce her name to chopped-up sheep meat. And really, who kills a little girl?! You have to be a… a-a-a psychopath to do that!" The Scout exclaimed, clenching his fists. He seemed strangely sickened with the idea of hurting a small child. This was probably due to the fact that he was closest to one, age wise. The Sniper smiled, calmer about his troubles.

"I, uh… I have to go now. Somebody'll give you something to eat in a bit. You gonna be okay on your own?"

The boy stuffed his hands into his pockets and stretched his legs out.

"Yeah. Yeah, I-I'll be alright."

"Take care."

The blinding in came in violently as the door opened, and then evaporated leaving red and purple blotches of color over the walls, the doors and virtually every surface the Scout looked at. He rubbed his eyes, gradually regaining his vision.

The first thing he saw as his eyes readjusted themselves to the darkness was the spider, which had just trapped a pesky fly into his web. The fly must have flown in when the Sniper opened the door. The Scout looked at the spider, his mouth forming a grin and waiting for carnage.

But something was off.

The spider did not kill its pray. Instead it fidgeted around the trapped fly, rolling its long, hairy legs over the web. At first, the Bostonian thought that the fly would be put into a cocoon. But it was not. The silvery web snapped and the fly fell on the ground.

It fell right next to the Scout's sneakers.

Kneeling, the Scout firmly grasped the fly in between his thumb and index finger. His eyes shifted to the spider and the fly. The fly was supposed to die. It had to die. And yet, the spider let it live. Its wings twitched. They moved in short spasms before the Scout clenched his grip and crushed it, a soft, cracking sound. It sounded like somebody was breaking chicken bones in half.

With the corner of his eye, the Scout caught a glimpse of a rubbery, pink earthworm peering through the wooden floorboards.

* * *

The worm moved around a small table, wiggling and swishing to and fro, trying to slide down. But every attempt at escape was interfered with. The Scout nudged the worm to the side, made it face a small spider he had trapped in a glass jar. The brown, hairy thing helplessly ran up the glass walls. The Scout clutched his dirtied shirt and limped across the shed. His wound did not heal, but it did not get worse. For two weeks, he had yet to show a sign of improvement. And the visitors became a rarer occurrence. He was lucky to get one visit every nine hours or so. They would bring him food, but he did not have the appetite. His collar bones were gaping under the hem of his T-shirt, his thighs shrunk to a size of a thumb and forefinger brought together in a circle. Dark circles around his eyes and his cheeks sunken, the man struggled to walk without limping. His gruesome presence made the survivors uncomfortable. He knew this. But there was a more important matter to attend to.

The spider.

That damn spider had spared six flies over the course of four days. It was not normal in the slightest.

The boy cleared his throat and shot the spider with his gaze.

"Good morning, Worm, your honor!" He began. "The crown will plainly show the prisoner that stands before you, who's been caught red-handed showing… _feelings_."

He said the word with a grimace, tightening his sullen face.

"Showing _feelings _of an almost… human nature!"

He took the jar into his hand and flipped it, the spider fell on the plastic lid. The Scout imagined it slamming its legs against the glass, begging for freedom.

_(This will not do…)_

The Scout dropped the jar and it shattered. The light blinded him, coming unexpectedly. It could have been either day or night outside. Right now, the blinding light could have been coming from the stars. It did not make a difference to the young, troubled man. The light brought forth a man, a goggled man. The Scout jumped and ran to him, grabbing his overalls and barely letting him leave his food on the top of the metal weapons locker.

"Any news? Is my Ma okay? Am I okay? Can I go? Can I go now, please?!"

The Engineer grabbed the boy's arm. It was still a mess of red and blue.

"It does not look safe, son. Best give it another week. And please try to eat something."

"What for?!" The boy snapped. "If this thing spreads, I won't be able to see any of you guys again. You'll shoot me!" He muttered profanities as he walked around the shed, stepping over the broken glass. "It's just like _Old Yeller_! You wait to see if I have rabies and then ya shoot me!"

(_At least Travis didn't take pleasure in it like you bastards_ _would_.)

He clenched his hand into a fist and hit himself on the chest. The voice flickered away.

"You'll have to wait a bit longer until you can shoot me!"

The Engineer sighed.

"Look Scout, I know this is hard, but nobody wants to shoot you. We just want to-!"

"Oh, I get it… I get it… It's nothing! It's nothing, that's what you all say! Well it is something! You're keeping me away from my Ma! The New Plague is probably over by now! You're just keeping me here as a sick pet or something! You won't let me out in a week. You were supposed to let me out two days ago!"

The boy pointed at the wall, filled with tally marks of all sizes. The boy completely lost track of time.

"Those aren't right, boy. Your mind is getting crazy because you've been here so long."

"My mind is fine, dumbass! Lemme go home! I wanna see my Ma! I wanna see Boston! I wanna throw a pitch at Fenway Park! I want to be normal again!"

The boy fell on the floor, clutching his shoulders and panting loudly. It reminded the Engineer of his daughter, of her night terrors when she was younger. She would curl up and pant loudly, shivering and sobbing. The Engineer looked at the boy, wanting to bring him up on his feet. But in situations like these, he best leave him alone.

"You… you'll be alright boy. You have to stay calm. Better safe than sorry, you best remember that."

The door closed and the Scout found himself thinking about all the wrongs he had done in his miserable life. All the people he killed, everything he ever stole and all the damage he had done.

"Engie!" He screamed, wanting somebody to hear him. "Engie, I have to tell ya something!" He cried, his confession cut by sharp, rapid sobs.

"I-I put the chicken bones in! I opened the filter and I ruined it! I f-f-figured… if we can't be here no more… I can go home. I can see my Ma. I can tell her that I miss her. If I can't keep her safe… at least I can be with her! I could have been if this didn't happen! A-a-and now… you're keeping me away from her! Away from everything I love. I… I didn't want this to happen."

He looked up into the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, Ma!"

His body began twitching, tears flowing from his eyes and dripping through his tangled eyelashes.

"I fucked up, Ma… I fucked up and I'm sorry."

He looked at the tally marks, his tears slowly clearing up. He sniffled, an odd aura of determination surrounding him.

He stood up with a grunt and took out a small pocket knife. Tongue sticking out of his mouth, he began scribbling letters into the marks. A square here, a line there… the marks were letters.

He wrote the mantra repeatedly until there was no room to write it any more. His eyes began to close and he worked on impulse, guided by his insanity. All those things surrounding him looked like dusty toys he would come across when running around his grandmother's home. They looked like old, rusty train sets and teddy bears with their button eyes torn off and the stuffing beginning to seep out. He could not look at those metal cases around him. It was too painful; it left a cold, heavy stone inside his stomach. He felt as though he were digesting his own sunken heart.

He took a step back and admired his work. Two hundred and nineteen mantras were spread across the wall. At that point he knew it. There was no plan to rescue him. They wanted him dead. The first person to walk in through that door will most likely kill him with no mercy. And the phrase they used to soothe him in his darkest hours was just scornful, treacherous mockery.

_Better safe than sorry. _

_Better safe than sorry._

_Better safe than sorry. _

_Better safe than sorry._

Nothing mattered at that point. All was clear. He was a madman, a lunatic. He was crazy.

(_No denying it. You're insane.)_

He was numb to the world around him, a little boy surrounded by murderous toys.

_(Craaaa-zy…_

_Toys in the attic, I am_

_Craaaa-zy…)_

"Scout?"

(_Murderer?) _

The Scout quickly moved his head towards the soft voice. How charming it was. He just wanted to greet her. He just wanted to-

_(CUT! Destroy the two-faced pigs! Fry their brains and spill their guts! Kill, kill, kill! No mercy, no mercy, no mercy! KILL, KILL, KILL!)_

-say hello to her.

The voice inside his head was getting louder. He tried to make the voices stop, to drain them from his mind. He clenched his ears, shaking his head wildly, but this only stirred the unholy thoughts.

_(She's here to kill you. They're scared of you. They're all scared of you. So those morons send little girls to fight their battles for them! They sent her here to cut you. Cut her first! Cut her first before she kills again!)_

_(-don't think like that, she's just a baby, DON'T THINK LIKE THAT!)_

_(CUT! I WANT BLOOD!)_

_(Not from her! Not like this!)_

He was breathing heavily, but the more deep inhales he took, the clearer it was. The girl called out to him. He knew that she had a gun, maybe a knife at the ready. How clever they were… sending in a little girl to do their dirty work.

He grinned.

His morals were drained. If they could send her to kill, he had no trouble killing this spotted, frocked, pudgy-limbed demon.

He stepped forward and Sarah gasped as she saw his lanky figure and exhausted visage.

"Scout! You-you look…"

"Like a freak?" He asked, ticking his head to the side. "I am a freak, Sarah. Sweet, sweet Sarah… I am freak like you made me. Come on now, don't be scared."

The girl stood in place as the Scout grabbed a metal case nailed to the wall. He tore it out, the nails plopped to the ground and the box crashed. He looked at it, an evil smile plastered on his face. Gingerly he reached out his index finger and pointed at the case.

"Look, Sarah, darling," he began. "What horrible girl you are. Look at what you made me do!"

"S-s-stay away from me!" She said, throwing a can of peas at him. The hit him on the head, but he only shook it off and came closer to her. Her arms fell to the side and she breathed heavily as the madman approached her. There was no humanity left in his glassy eyes. Only darkness.

_(CRUSH! CRUSH THE DECEITFUL PIGS! DESTROY THEM! NO MERCY, NO MERCY!)_

"Sweet… sweet little Sarah… Sarah Adams…" he cooed.

The Scout kicked the fallen case. The rusty, heavy flap unhinged itself and revealed a sharp tool. Its blades enticed the Scout, teasing him, inviting him to cut. With a smile, the man kneeled and grabbed the heavy axe. Sarah could see her petrified expression on the blade. Light flew across it as the Bostonian took it over his head before lowering it to his waist. The weight was similar to the weight of his baseball bat. He wanted to use it. He wanted to destroy something with it. Someone.

_(Chopped remains. Chop, chop, chop…)_

He reached out his arm and crooked his finger at her, inviting her towards him and to her certain death.

"It's alright. Everything's fine… Imma just cut you up and all will be fine."

The girl let out a hellish scream and ran outside. She pushed the door until it closed, and could hear the Bostonian trying to kick them open. He screamed, slammed against the door but could not open it. The petrified girl leaned on the door, her chest rose rapidly and her heart was beating fast.

"Imma make you proud, Ma!" She could hear the Bostonian. "Imma make you proud, so fucking proud, Ma!"

The girl's fingers travelled own the holster. As she ran her hand over the Beretta, she was at ease. She could handle this. She knew that she could.

The axe blade came through the door; her reflection was inches away from her face. A crack appeared, and behind it was the Bostonian's smirking expression, glad that he was able to make her scream in panic one last time before her destruction. The girl turned white in the face, looking into his lifeless eyes. But there seemed to be a gleam in them. The expectation of murder. The inner voice of a madman. The shining.

"Come 'ere, little Fanny…"


	19. The Chase

**A/N: **Taking a hiatus on this one to catch up on my schoolwork. So here's the, uh... season finale.

* * *

Her heart was racing fast as she watched the man with widened eyes. He screamed, louder than she had ever heard a man scream in agony. Blood ran down his face in hot streaks, the blade of the borrowed Kukri lodged in his right eye. Striking him with the blade was an action that left her paralyzed, staring in awe and disgust. Her jaw dropped down, all color drained from her face. The man lowered his axe, but not to stop himself from attacking her. He panted, grabbing the knife into the palm of his hand. The girl watched intently, looking through the crack in the wall. The Scout took the handle, breathing heavily, more determined to take the blade out than to think of the pain that it will cause him.

The girl almost fainted when the weapon was removed, a stream of crimson blood squirting out like a bullet from a pistol. He screamed as the steel escaped his grasp and fell on the cold shed floor, shaking his very core. The blood seeped down his face, falling on his shirt and blurring his vision. And as he struggled to stay on his feet, the girl began to shiver. Carefully she moved back, her eyes fixed on the paranoid man.

His strength came back in a wave of rage. The axe was grabbed tightly, his eyes spewing cold flames. He slouched, clenching the blood-stained fabric of his red shirt in his fist. The weapon dangled by his side. He breathed with his mouth ajar. The girl saw his bloodied teeth as a speck of moonlight shone over his pale, dried-up face. He smirked at her, hoping that it would be the last smirk she would ever see. The Bostonian plotted bloody murder right there on the spot. The girl's hand tightened around her gun, tucked in her holster.

"S-s-stand back!" She commanded, her voice shaky and weak. The Scout managed to chuckle at her panic. He lifted up the axe and struck the wall. It crashed, cracking the wooden boards. It stayed inside. The Scout admired Sarah's pose, her shoulders lifted and her head turned to the side as the foul noise filled the cold air.

"Now, now…" he said, licking his dry lips and squinting his left eye; "Is that any way a killer should speak? Come on, little Fanny, you're better than that…" he said, grabbing the axe and striking the wall once again, the gash in it now wide enough for him to stick an arm through. Sarah swallowed some hot spit, taking her gun out of the holster and pointing it at him. She huffed loudly, her brow furrowing.

"Drop the axe! D-d-don't make me use this!" She commanded in a stutter voice. The Scout chuckled, making another gash in the wall. Another strike followed, and it was only a matter of time before he could exit his haven.

At that point, Sarah closed her eyes. Only for a moment, only to clear her mind. She then opened them, focused them on the space between the Scout's nose and his gashed eye. Her muscles tightened as she pressed down the trigger. The jolt sent shivers through her spine.

The bang was louder than she had expected. A flock of ravens flew away, cackling in their shrill manner. The bullet flew directly into the Scout's head. It was a perfect kill shot.

And yet he felt nothing.

Instead, he continued to slash his way out of the small, cluttered prison they had given him. The blow should have knocked him down, but the man…

The monster felt nothing.

The girl was shocked, tugging at the trigger in a flight of panic. Three more shots were fired; all of them missed the Scout. The bangs did not even make him flinch. He continued making his way out, slamming the heavy ax against the wooden wall, crushing the planks. The girl tried to fire more rounds at the man, but a couple of empty, hollow clicks later, she knew that she had wasted all her ammo. The man's blood shone on the moonlight.

Her handgun was returned in its holster quickly, almost falling on the ground. Without looking back, she ran for the barren trees, she ran for the chicken coop. The dried-up grass cracked beneath her feet, and just as she was certain that she had lost him, the Bostonian lunged out of his safe place, screaming as he raised the axe above his head victoriously.

He laughed into the pitch-black sky, his eyes glassy and watering. Nobody would kill him, he thought. They wouldn't get him first.

"Sarah!" He shouted into the distance. "Sarah! Come 'ere a minute, pancakes!"

He squinted at the figure leaving the plain. She was there. She was among those tall, bare-branched trees that stretched out their limbs and curled them as they reached the hazy sky. The Scout hissed in pain, beginning to drag himself across the grass. The axe was being moved across the dusty ground, crumbling the spiky yellowing blades.

His vision was blurry, his mouth frothing.

"_Saraaaaah…_" he hummed; "Come out, come out wherever you _aaaaaaare…_."

He winced as he heard the bustling in the branches. One of them cracked. With a satisfied, sadistic smile, he took the heavy axe and placed it over his right shoulder, releasing a heavy grunt of displeasure. He smiled at the orchard, revealing his bloodied teeth.

He took a step forward. His eyes scoped the braches, unable to locate neither hide nor hair of the little atrocity. He chuckled, hoping that a small piece of her frock would reveal itself, dangling from the crown. She was protected with a veil of darkness… for now.

"Now, now, Sarah," he said, walking slowly and looking around the small forest; "I know you're scared, sweet little Sarah… But just you know, Uncle Scout won't hurt ya. No, no he won't. He will fucking murder you and destroy every trace of your existence, but I will make sure you don't feel too much pain…"

He was creeping around a dark tree trunk when his eyes shot up, revealing more blank darkness and nothing else. He growled, clutching the heavy axe. The breath that came out during his impatient exhale was stale and putrid.

The moon looked so incredibly bright that night. He looked up, bottom lip trembling. His fist clenched and moved in spasms. His breathing pattern became quick and uneven. He made a promise to the moon.

"I'll get her. I'll get her, Ma. I'll get her like I couldn't get those Infected bastards… Like they got you… I swear, I will kill her in cold blood, and all for you, Ma!"

The tear that rolled down his cheek was soapy and red.

"…you'll be so fucking proud of me, Ma."

A branch broke and the Scout flinched. He jumped towards the tree and lunged the heavy axe into it. It shook, and the poor girl that climbed up it gasped in fright. The Scout looked up with a triumphant grin, striking the trunk once more. The body of the tree shook, the girl's hands bled as she tried to hold onto the sharp branches. But it wasn't long before one of her hands slipped and hung limply by her side. Her feet dangled as she gasped for air. Her heart was beating strongly, with a rapid pace.

Meanwhile, the Scout gave up on trying chopping down the tree. After one blow too many, the blade became stuck in the wood. He grabbed it, trying to tug it out. He pulled and pulled to no avail. In a fit of rage, he stepped on the long, wooden handle, clutching the wide tree trunk. Splinters dug into his pale, dry skin. He slowly began climbing up towards the girl. Her shins dangled in front of his face.

"Come on little Sarah," he said in a hollow, high-pitched tone; "make this easy for me and I'll make it quick for you."

His fingers felt like ice cubes against her flesh.

The girl had begun to lose feeling in her shins. Her legs flailed in panic, kicking the Scout on the head. She kicked and swung them, hanging from the branch. And the man fumed with rage, feeling a desperate urge to bite her tender, pale flesh.

"Kill me, will you?!" He shouted as beads of sweat and blood formed on his forehead.

Suddenly, the branch cracked in the girl's hand, and she plummeted down. Her shin slipped out of the Scout's hand as her boy laid flat on the ground. Her fists were curled up, and her head buried in the dirt. Slowly, she picked herself up and tried running away, limping.

"Where do you think you're going?" The Scout asked through his teeth as he lowered himself from the tree, grasping the axe with both of his hands. The thin veins on his forearms were throbbing. He released a grunt, a hiss, a scream. And with that scream, the axe was back in his hands, and the only reminder of it ever being wedged inside the trunk, was a large gap that was showing thin, white strings of the wood.

He smiled. In about five minutes, a gash like this would appear over the girl's neck.

* * *

The girl was sitting inside one of the wooden cages, reminding her of a crate. For a little over three minutes, she listened to the Scout running around the pen, laughing madly. She heard the whoosh of the blade as it sliced the air, and possibly a couple of chickens that dared to stand in his way. The sounds were horrifying. First the clucking, then the panicked screams. And their lives ended with a quick slice, a gush of humorless laughter. She could hear their crimson blood squirt out of their plump bodies. If she closed her eyes, she could feel as if it were covering her.

But right now it was quiet. Far too quiet for comfort. She closed her eyes, shivering. Maybe he will grow tired. Maybe he will bleed out. Maybe… she will live.

Her eyes widened as she heard his dry voice.

"Come on now, Sarah… you'll make a lovely little corpse."

It struck the wooden walls. Not his axe, but his fist. Her scream was silenced, muffled by his hand that covered her mouth. It dragged her closer to the fall, pressing hard against her face. Slowly, it slid down to her neck. His dirty, blood-stained fingers dug into it.

Her vision was hazy. Her head was light. She shook and clawed at the bandaged hand, but he felt nothing. Her panicked, spastic movements managed to undo the tight knot. The bandage hung limply inside her hand. She clutched it, looking up, and saying goodbye to the world.

This was it, she thought. The last image of the earthly world that she would ever see. They will find her dead body; bury it if she's lucky.

She didn't want to be buried. Not in the cold, dirty ground. And she didn't want to die here, either. Not now.

She wasn't going to be useless.

Her eyes widened, her pulse quickened. She managed to locate the Bostonian's thumb.

Her teeth felt like razors.

The boy retracted his hand, howling in pain, and the girl moved to the other side. The gap showed the darkness of the outside, and all the slaughtered chickens whose carcasses were caressed by the blurry moonlight. She spat out the contents of her mouth, gazing at the flesh in silent disbelief. She wasn't shocked by the fact that she bit it, but rather by the fact that she bit it off. The small lump laid in its own blood, the same blood now running down the corner of her mouth. She wiped it against the bandage, and it left small, burgundy spots.

"I'll get you for this…" he hissed, holding his bloodied hand. The chickens laid by his feet, their heads, their yellow eyes. He kicked them. "I'll wring your fucking neck!"

He flinched as he heard a sound. The soft tapping of feet. It ran across him and suddenly stopped. Even in his red, raging blindness, he knew that it was her footsteps that had made the racket. He narrowed his eyes and ran back towards the woods.

"You're dead, Sarah! Ya hear me?! Imma make you proud, Ma… So fucking proud, Ma!"

And so he ran as swiftly as a mountain lion, unaware of the fact that the noise was made by a thrown stone. And the little girl who threw it was kneeling over scattered grains, looking around the grimy chicken coop, hoping to find the ingredients she hid behind one of the boards.

And surely enough, in a minute, a small lighter made its way into her hand.

* * *

_(Where is she?!)_

(_You idiot, how could you lose her?!)_

The Scout wondered, running back inside the shed. She tossed over cabinets, weapons, everything that got in his way. He threw the axe on the floor, and looked around the room, not seeing a damn thing. His panting was getting in the way of his search, as did the phantom pain in his thumb.

"End of the road, Sarah! There's nowhere to go!"

And really, there wasn't. All that were inside this shed were doomed.

Sarah stood nearby, looking down at the shed from a small mound of dirt. She was holding a full bottle of Scrumpy. The Scout's bloodied gauze was sticking out of the neck of the brown bottle. And slowly, a lighter's flame rose up.

Really. There was no escaping.

She raised the Molotov over her head and smirked, wickedly. The flames flew over her head, twisting.

_Bye-bye._

The bottle made impact. The fire spread over the shed. The long, thick flames engulfed the Scout's body. His screams were deafening. The fire emitted thick, choking clouds of dense smoke. The man's eyes watered. He tried to escape, but everywhere he went, there was a fiery barrier that prevented his escape. Flesh tore from his hands as he held his chest, panting and shivering. It was so cold, though he was ablaze. Soon, he was reduced to his elements, the basic elements of all beings; ashes and dust.

(_I'll get you for this, Sarah! Mark my words, you will die by our hands! You will never escape us! EVER!)_

The construction burned like a Christmas candle. Sarah stood and watched with a strange sense of calmness, while she pocketed the small, silver lighter that she was lucky enough to find in its safe place. Pyro had taught her well.

**"SARAH!"**

The surviving members all rushed outside in a split second. Irene took her daughter into her arms and wept, hear heartbeat unsteady. The little girl watched the fire burning, looking at it with detached interest.

"It's…" Irene spoke through a whisper; "It's alright now. You're safe. Don't be scared. It's-i-i-it's alright, Sarah." She spoke in a jittery voice, his lower lip trembling.

The marksman looked up towards the shed, slowly disappearing before their very eyes. A golden glow shone over them. The madness had stopped for Sarah. For the others, it had just begun.

"What did this?" The Sniper asked nobody in particular. A misleading omen cracked across the sky.

The Spy flinched as he heard thunder crashing into the distance. The group took note of his spastic movement, all but Sarah, who still wasn't paying attention. The Engineer looked up into the sky, now thickening with dark clouds of smoke, alcohol and burnt wood. His gaze fell on the burning shack.

"Lightning," he suggested in a hollow tone. Irene nodded and embraced her daughter tightly.

"We need to go inside," she said to the team; "There's going to be a storm."

Her calloused fingers ran through the girl's hair.

"It's alright… it's just lightning. Scout is in a better place now… I'm so sorry you had to see that."

The little girl said nothing. But there was something about her expression as she watched the Scout disappear forever. Behind the cover of the night, behind the deadpan expression. There was something behind her blank stare.

Behind her reserved expression, behind her pale face, there was a smile.

And what a fiery smile it was.

* * *

The storm crashed and rain fell on the now put-out shed. Somewhere in it, the Scout laid, petrified in ashes. The base smelt of wood and water, wax that was slowly melted by the flame atop the long, white candle, yellowed by age and use. Dell walked into the room, only to find Irene staring blankly at it. He stood in place, his eyes falling over her arms crossed on her knees. She slouched, much resembling an old maid.

"It wasn't lightning," she said in a hollow tone. Dell shook his head.

"Irene…"

"Lightning couldn't have killed those chickens! Lightning couldn't have left the blood on her hands!" She shrieked, turning in her chair. The candle flickered. "I don't know what happened, but I know it wasn't lightning!"

"Irene," Dell began slowly; "It's late, you should-"

"I should what?!" She stood up, knocking down the wooden chair. It turned to the side as it hit the cold floor. "I should accept the fact Sarah almost died?! Where were the guards?! Where were we?! Sleeping like teenagers in heat!"

"Irene, it was an isolated incident, Sarah is fine and you're just…"

"I'm not having a moment, Dell! Not every worry I have is some psychotic outburst!" Though misty eyes, she gestured around the room. Her voice was mawkish. "You know, I wanted to come with you because you said we were safe. Because I thought we would survive. And then… half of us are gone… our daughter almost died and nobody was there to protect her. And th-then I realize that we are the only two that don't belong in your group. We're the only two that were allegedly brought here to be protected… Dell…"

She remained still for a second before running towards him. Her fingers clenched the collar of his shirt, shook it until his vision was blurry. Her eyes shot pure, white fury as she shrieked into his ear.

"WHY DID YOU BRING US TO THIS HELLHOLE?! WHY DID YOU BRING US TO DIE HERE?! WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SKIP THE MIDDLE MAN AND JUST KILL ME YOURSELF?!"

His palm smacked against the side of her face with almost brute force. She had trouble staying on her feet, still holding his shirt for balance. He took her by the shoulders and spoke to her in a low growl.

"Irene, stop it. Nobody knew it was going to be this way. But as it is, we need to keep our calm. This isn't the time for you to fly off the handle. This isn't the time for you to have another breakdown."

Irene watched with fear in her eyes. Slowly she nodded, the words escaping her mouth as if she were set on automatic.

"… this isn't like Christmas. This isn't like the oil rig explosion. This isn't like… the tape."

Dell stroked the sweaty strands of her hair.

"There never was a tape, Irene."

"Keep… keep telling me that. It was… it was just so real, you know?"

He stayed close to her for one moment before bidding her goodnight. She stayed, clutching her nightgown and looking at him with pleading eyes. He had no time for this. Not now.


	20. The Final Broadcast

"Ukraine?"

Jack, one of the last remaining survivors in that small, run-down town, looked at the map given by the Medic. The map was glanced over and then quickly returned in the form of a clump.

"You can take this and shove it."

The German's eyes widened as he tried to iron out the streaks on the crumpled map that showed a way to a small airport hangar, their ticked to freedom. He and the Heavy finally found a small town to stock up with supplies. Along with the bullets and food, they came across another survivor named Jack. The survivor gave them a place to rest. While the Heavy was asleep, the Medic decided to let Jack in on a secret. Sadly, this survivor was reluctant on leaving this small ghost town.

"What do you mean? This could be the answer to our prayers! It can be a safe haven, and all we need is to get to that hangar! I heard so many people travel to Ukraine like that! It's the only way to get there, and it's barely a ten–hour drive! And then it's off to the land of milk and honey…"

"That's way across the state, it's too risky!" Jack said, showing the stupidity of the idea with a toss of the hand. "And besides, this place is safe enough! Our clan is growing, our clan is strong!"

The Medic's eyes narrowed at the arrogant survivor. Jack was really the most unbearable creature he had ever endured.

"Fine." The Medic took the map and tucked it in his arm. "You might not want to build yourself a new life, but I sure will! I will be damned if I have to spend one more day coexisting with those…those…THINGS!"

"Oh, you're not going anywhere," Jack said, in a grim tone.

Picking up a shotgun from the ground, the survivor emitted an ominous chuckle. It was loaded and locked on the Medic's face. The German turned only to see a small group of men rushing towards him, grabbing his arms. Jack greeted them with a short and cheerful "_Praise the Queen!"_ before snickering at the doctor, who yelled in pain, calling the Heavy. The men's claws dug deep into his arms. The men ran with the Medic as he kicked and screamed, giving the men several bruises across their legs. Still, the men simply ignored the bothersome pain and carried on. Jack watched with detached interest, forming a small, sadistic smile.

"Nobody leaves the Queendom," Jack muttered into the distance. "Those who come are here to stay."

And Jack's words were confirmed by the Queen, cheering from behind a cold screen in the middle of town. Her crisp laughter was intermitted by odd buzzes and electric bursts.

* * *

The woman looked at the bright red dot on the camera. It was glowing, begging her to say another encouraging lie. She had run out of those a long time ago. Only melancholy stayed, and the guilt that she was trying to drown.

The bottle of wine fell by her side. Due to its depressing emptiness, it did not make a mess. The woman rubbed her forehead, tired but needing to speak. Not lies this time. That was a promise that she wouldn't break. She made it to herself not too long ago, when her hometown was overrun by those ungodly monsters. Her intestines were knotted by the revelation that she would soon become their victim, just like so many people that she had lied to.

Her breath was strong, heavy with the taste of wine and smoke. It flew out of her chapped lips in a long, painful exhale. Her emerald eyes fell on the running camera that transmitted her horrible state directly to all the television sets in America. She spoke in a raspy voice.

"Hello once more. Forgive my sorrowful state. Some of you might not even recognize me at this moment… I know I don't."

Her fists clenched on her lap. She extended her legs across the floor. A sigh was released before she looked up again.

"You might have known me as Emily."

The blonde looked into the camera, buzzing as it filmed dead air. It projected an image virtually nobody would be watching; a figure of a liar. Emily was slouching, crossing her fingers and occasionally picking at a bitten hangnail. Her dirty-blonde hair was electrified, the hairs spreading across her face, surrounding it like a cobweb. It had been too long since that hair of hers was brushed. Mostly because there was no reason to tend to it. Her skin was pale and greasy; a long shiny strip ran over her face, across her wide nose and over her chin. Small blemishes of both red and brown were scattered over her sunken cheeks. Her green eyes were filmed over. They looked as though dust covered the pupils. They remained open and gazing into the lens. It was not the regular, sparkling gaze she gave to her viewers, to her cult. It was a sickened look of sorrow.

A word did not escape her lips for some time after the brief introduction. Her lips lingered, half parted. Thin strips of dry skin were hanging from them, some old and shriveled, some fresh and even bleeding. She would sometimes lick off the blood, the moistness of her tongue covering the dry spots and giving an allusion that everything was fine.

But she knew nothing was fine at that moment. The Infected finally came to her town. Her coworkers were all dead. She had spent the past week locked inside this small recording room, trying to signal for help. She gave up trying on Wednesday. It was Sunday now. She shivered and sighed loudly as she gave up all of her promises.

Nothing was fine. And today, she was going to admit it to her carefree fans, whose members were now most likely dead or walking corpses.

She nervously plucked at the hem of her gown, a long, green dress that had become torn and filthy at the edges. She had spent the past seven days in that dress. It was most likely fused to her. She first put it on for her performance, her next set of lies. But soon, word got out that an Infected horde went through the city limits. Her people lead her into this small recording room, ordering her to stay. They gave her nothing but a gun and a promise that they would come back for her and bring her to safety, as soon as they managed to fight off the horde.

Nobody came back for her.

And there she was; a camera, a bottle of scotch, an absolutely putrid atmosphere and a loaded gun. Tragedy had to ensue, and it was going to be recorded for all the survivors to see.

"This will be my final broadcast."

The girl's gaze fell to the side of the room. There was nothing to look at, and it was clear that she was only looking through the space between her and the wall. The wallpapers that were taped on it were beginning to peel off at the corners. Those wallpapers will outlast her, she thought with jaunty melancholy. Not averting her eyes, she spoke. Her voice was raspy, and seemed to drag on for decades. Nothing that could assimilate this girl with the role of a celebrity, a singer no less.

"I never asked for this. I never wanted this to happen. A girl dreams of becoming famous, of becoming renowned. But not like this. This is like some cruel joke. The world is crumbling beneath our feet, and I… I'm here as a harlequin, entertaining the masses who fail to realize it."

Her head craned back to the lens of the camera. In the sphere, she couldn't even recognize the person looking back at her, the abominable showgirl with smeared make-up and a broken heart.

"You know," she began with a smile; "I always wanted to be on camera. It fascinated me. As a young girl, I always wanted to be the centre of attention. Sure, my parents never approved. Don't get me wrong," she added hastily; "they were great parents. But they never… showed any real support."

Her arms crossed over her stomach, aching with guilt and hunger. A short period of silence ensued. This was a subtle reminder that this broadcast was not going to be like the others.

"And you know the worst part? I gave into them. I grew up thinking that I could never be famous. I grew up thinking that I would never amount to anything. I was one of those girls who could sing every musical score ever composed, but only in the privacy of her own bedroom."

She opened up to the blank air, the cold heartlessness of the video camera. And as she spoke, she nibbled at a cuticle growing out of her middle finger. Her teeth were short and stained, glazed-over with a brown finish. And her nails were decorated with many small hangnails and scratches; some old and dry, some new and even bleeding. She hissed as a quick bite drew scarlet blood out of the finger.

Shaking her hand to dry it off, she continued.

"During that time, there were very few occasions where I stood out. And I can reflect on none of them without a feeling of shame and regret. Even with that dream of mine, I failed to draw any positive attention…"

With a small, almost ironic smile, she corrected herself.

"No. That's not true. I remember one person who truly supported me. Not at first, but soon, and more than anybody I ever came across later in my life. H-he-he…" she blubbered; "He called me amazing, couldja imagine? I was never called amazing before. And I was so happy! I felt as if I finally found my place in the world… And at that point, I didn't even care if he was saying it because he really did find me incredible, or because of politeness or irony or even…"

Her joyful expression turned into the deadpan gaze she had begun her recording with.

"… or even pity," she ended. Her hand brushed over her brow, complete chaos in her head. "I didn't hear from the man in a very long time. Hopefully I never will again. He… he left me without even saying goodbye. But that feeling, that feeling of pure recognition that he left inside my heart… it's what drove me to this vocation."

Her hands ran through the blond mess atop her head, feeling the greasy scalp and frayed locks. Her cranium was pounding, an agonizing headache that has been building up for weeks, and was now finally beginning to manifest itself.

"It was… it was horrible. The things I had to do, the venues… and all that because I wanted praise, just a little. And you know what? I never really got it. It was vague, insincere… Many people, I remember, told me that I had talent… No. No, they-…they told me I had _potential._"

The word was dragged out like the worst possible insult. She leaned in her chair, looking at the camera with steely eyes. She had forgotten that she was talking to a chunk of metal. It was now a creature of flesh and blood, her own therapist, a young girl's journal and an author's pen.

"Do you know what _potential_ means? It means that you aren't quite there yet. They don't hate you, but they sure as hell don't admire you. Potential means that you might be able to become somebody. You might be recognized, but when you're only a _potentially_ good entertainer, it means that your shows won't sell. It means that every word said to you is a ruse, a kind but empty word. It means that you will never amount to anything, unless you work so hard at it that you lose track of who you are. Until you begin sweating blood and selling your integrity for a larger fanbase, you will never be accepted! That is what the word _potential _meant. I loathed it."

Tears filled up the girl's eyes as she spoke with a vigorous passion. And before her eyes flashed all the failures she desperately tried to correct, all the critiques she clipped out of local papers. Every fall joined itself and created a string leading straight to hell, and her downfall was finally created, vivid before her. It was paved with cheery tunes and lies.

"But as a foolish creature, I tried to work that potential. I thought, if some of the best told me that I had it, I must have been destined to make something of myself. So I gave up on my family, my friends, all I wanted to do was please people, people I didn't even know! And I really thought I was, honestly! The good reviews overweighed the bad ones, and I honestly thought that I was onto something. I no longer had potential. I _was _potential. Potential to succeed, potential to top the best in the business..."

Her gaze dropped to her feet. Her head remained down, as if some almost atavistic shred of pride kept her from showing her weeping face to the public. She took several deep breaths until she finally sat up straight, forcing a smile.

"And then somebody would tell me that I was doing something wrong. Somebody else would say that I wasn't doing anything right in the first place. They lied to me… and it hurt so much when I found out. And now, here I am," she said, flailing her arm up with little vigor; "I've been lying to you all along. I... I wanted to keep you safe, I really did, but now I know that I only mislead you. I have been nothing short of a failure my entire life. I was used, I was deceived, and instead of fighting for myself, I took it out on you, commanding you as marionettes while others held my own strings!"

More dead air ensued after that burst of anger. She looked into the camera briefly, her face completely red and slightly bloated. The recorder still buzzed, capturing her unflattering image. Slowly, she lowered her long, pale arm down to the dusty floor. She grabbed an object in her hand firmly, bringing it close to her chest. The small pistol was embraced firmly, and the cold metal almost felt warm against her beating heart.

"Deep down… I know I've done something right. Not much, not everything. But people did connect with me. Or rather, they connected with Emily. You-you all saw that cheery, smiling, perfect girl. The one who brightens up a day just by saying a few comforting words. She is beautiful, charming, popular… that Emily is what you love. I am just a person who portrays her. But outside of these walls… outside of this small, cramped room, I am nobody. And as much as I would like to be Emily, I find myself being nothing more than a waste of space. And I'm-…sorry…"

She gasped mid-speech, holding back a flood of tears that filled the brim of her eyes and descended down her thick, matted eyelashes. Her vision was impaired; everything seemed foggy and sprinkled with salt.

"I became a mouthpiece. I gave you empty promises, I never listened to you, at times I never even respected you! And only now do I understand what horrible person I was! I tried so hard to be loved… and I never loved anybody back." She wiped off a small tear that descended to her chin, about to fall on the weapon in hand.

"Emily would never do that. But I did."

Her voice cracked as she moved the gun away from her frame. The smooth metal pipe did not glisten. She did not expect it to. She didn't expect it to be flawless, perfect, shiny and beautiful. She only expected it to do its job well.

It was more than she could ever do.

"I'm…" she started meekly; "I'm not even sure I sing that well. But I do enjoy it. It hasn't been ruined for me yet. Quite soon, they'll come for me. And quite soon, I will never sing again. Tell me, darlings…"

She smiled at the camera, not showing her teeth in blatant self-indulgence, but rather stretching her lips slightly. It was a weak, honest smile, the kind you wouldn't see in her line of business.

"Would it be alright if I sung for you one last time? The sweetest melodies are the ones sung by caged birds…"

Emily seemed to wait for a response briefly before she placed the barrel of the gun on her temple. The gun shook in her nervous, trembling hand. Another weak smile manifested itself, this time because of relief. No matter how bad she was a person, it was all going to end now. And at that point, the only thing that had to be good about her was her aim.

"I… I wrote this piece for a little French play. I doubt that the play will ever see the light of day, so I'm sharing this with you… whoever you are."

And soon she began to sing. Her bottom lip quivered, and her words were interrupted with short inhales that spread, jittering as she exhaled to calm her nerves. Strangely, the sound coming from her was not of a song, but of a confession. She hummed some of the words, too painful to fully articulate. However, as she found her confidence, or pain that took upon itself the part of the source of her strength, she sung louder.

_There was a time when men were kind…  
When their voices were soft…  
And their words inviting…  
There was a time when love was blind  
And the world was a song.  
And the song was exciting.  
There was a time…_

She looked at the camera, tears flowing out of her eyes as she took a small inhale in order to continue.

_…then it all went wrong…_

The words seemed to pierce her fragile heart. The index finger moved across the trigger; a tear rolled down her cheek and left a shiny trail. And she sung like she was in front of her admiring crowd, her eyes never leaving the surface of the camera. She would greet death with a smile on her face and a song on her lips. The noise she made shrouded the room. It no longer seemed dark and bleak. Instead it was pitch-black, and as unwelcoming as the inscription on the gates of Hell.

Emily had nothing to worry about. She had already abandoned all hope, entering there a long time ago.

A soft, cheerfully mocking note ran through the verse that followed. The merry undertone of the melody clawed at her heart, decorating it with fresh, bleeding wounds. The cheer would not last long, and it was clear by the sound of her croaky voice itself. At times, it would crack to let out a whimper. Flawed and cut, the song managed to be somewhat melodic, sung by a fallen angel.

_I dreamed a dream in time gone by…  
When hope was high  
And life, worth living.  
I dreamed that love would never die…  
I dreamed that God would be forgiving.  
Then I was young and unafraid  
And dreams were made and used and wasted.  
There was no ransom to be paid  
No song unsung, no wine untasted…_

_But the tigers come at night  
With their voices soft as thunder…  
As they tear your hope apart  
As they turn your dream to shame…!_

She let the tone stretch out, holding onto the note, not wanting it to pass. When the song was over, her pain would be over, yet she held onto it, thinking it was the only thing life was willing to hand her. Life without it was unfamiliar, unkind almost. She held the gun tightly, the barrel shook against the side of her head though her finger had yet to strike the trigger. Her face grimaced, her eyes closed, a deep inhale ensued before she started singing again. The lyrics were at times interrupted by sobs that slowly changed into words. The sentences she bellowed out were delivered as shivers of her voice and yells of ache.

_He slept a summer by my side…  
He filled my days with endless wonder.  
He took my childhood in his stride!  
But he was gone when autumn came…!_

_And still I dream he'll come to me…_  
_That we will live the years together_  
_But there are dreams that cannot be…_  
_And there are storms we cannot weather_

She breathed heavily, pressing her right hand against her beating heart. For a second, her eyes dropped on the ground, ashamed to be recorded. The girl wept and curved herself downwards, and nobody could say with complete certainty that the girl used to be the lovely Emily Payne.

_I had a dream my life would be…  
So different from this hell I'm living!  
So different now from what it seemed…_

There was a quick pause before her final words that came out in a jittery cry.

"_Now… life… has killed… the dream…"_

She sniffed;

_ "I dreamed…"_

The shot was loud and followed by the crashing of small droplets of blood against the wall. Soon, Emily's body collapsed like the one of a ragdoll. Her body was folded, her head turned to the side. And on her face, there was still a smile, plastered and as stiff as it ever was. Even in death, they expected her to smile. Even in death, they expected her to draw attention.

But at that moment, her lies ended. The moment was captured. It was a shame so few people saw it.

One of those people was the Sniper.

* * *

The man watched the now blank screen with wide eyes. His heart was beating fast though he tried to keep as calm as he could. That was her voice. That was her lovely little voice that once pierced his heart with its sweetness. Now he heard it again, aching and gruesome and yet so bittersweet. Her voice; a sensation that was wiped off this earth with one bullet, just like that, in an instant. This happened thirty minutes ago, and he was the only one to see it. After almost five minutes of intently looking at her limp body, he turned the set off. During that time, he almost hoped that she would rise back up. He wanted her to live, because even through her lies, she lived. And as long as men could lie, they could say that there was still hope.

Lies came out of fearing consequences. Lies came out of the future. But when those ruses disappear completely, there is little hope for the future at hand.

The Spy walked into the room, looking at the Australian. Naturally, he became worried because of his lifeless expression.

"Sniper?" He asked, standing nearby. "What is it?"

Only at that point did the sharpshooter look away from the dark spherical screen. In a second, the Spy's fear came true.

"I have to tell them."

"Mundy, what are you-?"

"She's gone, mate! She's dead and gone and it might as well have been me who killed her!" He spewed, jolting up and standing straight. "Spy, they need to know! I can't hide this any longer! Every parent needs to know what happened to their child!"

"Mundy, you are being ridiculous! You have no way of knowing what happened to her!"

"Bullshit! You know what I just saw?" He asked, pointing at the screen; "That Emily kid shot herself in the head. And she had it good! If that happened to her, God knows what the girl…"

"The girl is not Emily, stop associating her with-!"

"Well, it might have been! I'm telling them!"

The Spy watched with narrowed eyes as the Sniper moved across the room, passing him.

"You're telling him what, Mundy?"

"I'm telling them the truth!"

"No!" The Spy commanded, grabbing the marksman's shoulder and tugging it back with impressive strength; "I will not let you jeopardize this group because of your guilty conscience!"

"Fuck off!"

"You will not say anything about the girl! She's gone, it's over! They accepted it, why can't you?!"

The Sniper grabbed the Spy's forearm and pushed it off his body. He brought himself into the emissary's face, screaming.

"I had one job to do! I had to keep her safe! A professional keeps his word, and if something went wrong with her, it's my duty to explain how!"

"She was fine when you left her, Mundy! The girl grew tired! The girl ran off! It was never your fault, stop obsessing over it!"

"How couldn't I obsess over it?! Huh?! After all I've done, it's only reasonable to obsess over her!"

"Mundy, I am warning you as a colleague and as a friend, this will not end well for anybody!"

"Well it didn't end well for Pepper, either! Why should I-!"

"Pepper?"

The two turned around and faced the Engineer. He held a couple of blueprints in one hand, a wrench in the other. The marksman suddenly became speechless, all ideas that flew through his head were now lost in the abyss of his mind. The Engineer and the marksman watched each other with interest. The Spy rubbed his head and helplessly plummeted into the sofa. He rubbed at his balaclava, muttering something about warnings.

"Stretch…" the Engineer started, taking one step forward, looking at the taller mercenary, who now felt incredibly small. The Texan posed a question, tilting his head back. "Why are you talking about Pepper?"

The Australian swallowed some hot saliva. In the distance, he heard clattering. The sound resembled a series of chimes, the kind that came after a few plates were broken. And then he heard quick, eager footsteps. Sooner than he could respond, Irene was standing beside them.

"You knew her…" she said with her mouth ajar, her eyes focused on the tall mercenary. Slowly she walked across the creaking floorboards, not letting the man leave her penetrating gaze for a second. And what a steely gaze that was. It was a stern look of revelation and accuse, mixed with joy. It was the same look a lawyer might flash to a convict after he succeeded to send him away. Irene's eyes widened, her index finger pressed against the marksman's chest.

"You were the person on that tape. The tape was real!"

The Engineer looked at his wife carefully.

"Irene, honey, what are you-?"

She silenced him with a flick of her hand, not moving her eyes from the tall Australian. Her eyes glistened, and her visage began to take the form of a smile, an insane, psychotic smile.

"There was a tape sent to us. It showed our daughter… and a man. The tape was stolen, but it was real! I knew it was!" She exclaimed with a burst of laughter, tugging at her long, blond hair. The marksman took a step back, but to no avail. The woman pressed herself against him, and he could see the determination firing from her eyes.

"Everyone thought I was crazy! Everyone thought I was making it up! You were the man! You were the man behind all of my Valium, Zoloft, and Xanax! You were the reason behind my visits to the therapist… all his time I thought I was insane…"

Her expression then took a sudden form of a frown. Her jaw shook, her brow furrowed, and she was forced to take a step back from the man. She had never been more disgusted in her entire life. For there he was; the cause of and explanation to her insanity. She had waited for this moment for so long, dreamed of it even. She savored it, every millisecond of the blow.

Her fist made impact with his jaw, and the man toppled over, falling on the armrest of the large sofa. The Spy moved away, and stared at the fuming Irene, standing with her arms spread apart and breathing slowly and heavily.

"Stretch!" The Engineer said, running towards him. He helped him up on his feet before looking at Irene.

"Irene, what's gotten into you?"

The woman lowered her arms down to her body before she responded to the question that almost everyone in the room knew the answer to. It was short, precise, and it made her husband strike the Sniper with intense force as soon as he heard it, without so much as giving the man a chance to explain himself.

"They slept together," she said with a crack in her voice.


	21. The Degenerate

_The van stopped in the middle of the desert, moving to the side of the road and parking there. The white sun burnt across the sky, over the many poor creatures inhabiting the vast Outback. The inside of the vehicle was beginning to heat up as well. The young camerawoman had trouble sitting straight up in her passenger seat, filming the man that guided them to this location. He spoke of a recent endeavor, the hunt for a vicious crocodile. It was not the biggest he had taken on, he made that clear many times during a short window of film, but it did leave some nasty scratches and cuts over his body. His amazing tale of adventure was overlapping with the radio that was set on low. As the man's mumbles became as quiet as the songs that played, the girl slowly moved her head away from the large, boxy contraption. The camera suddenly felt heavy. There was a certain air of relief flooding over the younger girl as she placed the heavy object on her thighs._

_"Fascinating," she said with detached interest. She grazed the surface of the camera with her fingertips before switching it off. The older man looked at the girl huff in lazy exhaustion._

_"Aren't you supposed to keep that camera on all the time?" He asked, always slightly puzzled by her turning off her device as soon as she got some very limited material. Her gaze was steely and a little cold._

_"You put down your rifle from time to time, dontcha? I don't want it to heat up. 'Sides, it's not like you're still interesting…" she smiled jokingly, half hoping that he wouldn't bring up the fact that the past few days were nothing but interesting to her. Luckily, the assassin said nothing until Pepper stood up, stretching her arms out over her head._

_"Where ya off to?" He asked, casually looking out into the open desert, as burning and beautiful as it always has been._

_"I'm off to get some fresh air…" she responded, running her fingers down her tanned, guileless limbs, little white hairs spread across the smooth surface. "Maybe I'll work on my tan. I can't go back to that sickly white I came here with, now can I?"_

_The man nodded, responding to her question that he wouldn't be joining song by the Chordettes was still playing quietly inside the van, bursting through the radio. Mundy looked uneasy listening to it while Pepper bobbed her head to the simplistic beat._

_Lollipop lollipop  
Oh lolli lolli lolli…  
Lollipop lollipop...  
Lollipop!_

_ She put her index finger inside the hot hollow of her mouth and swiftly brought it out with a distinctive pop. She then opened the heavy van door, hopping out of the vehicle. The door shut behind her, and only then did Mundy's lingering gaze leave her frame, and he allowed himself a long exhale._

_And suddenly, his mind flooded with guilt. The fact that he did not know what triggered the flush of hotness and shame. It wasn't just the heat inside the van, it was the fever burning inside him. And it wasn't a pleasant heat that he felt; it was of a sinner spinning in hell. _

_And what did he do? Nothing. What did he say? Nothing. All he was aware of was that every time he spoke with the girl, every time his eyes flew the bare surface of her neck and shoulders, he would find himself calmer, at ease, feeling as if he truly belonged there. He belonged in that moment in time, with that annoying little creature, her neck, her face, her camera and all. _

_And it was that elation of being with her that he feared. He wasn't supposed to feel this way. Deep inside, he knew it, and that's why he sat in his driver's seat, breathing heavily as his red, cotton shirt filled with sweat. He ran the palm of his hand over his moist forehead, beads of salty liquid forming at a rapid pace. He inhaled one last time to keep calm, taking the brim of his shirt and pulling it over his head. The fabric lay on the passenger seat beside him, over the girl's camera that she left. He looked at it, feeling the temperature in his body lower itself, the sensation of guilt vanishing._

_"Jesus, Mundy…" he said, his eyes darting to his pathetic reflection in the rearview mirror. "What the fuck are you doing?"_

_His head finally cleared. He stood up from his seat and made his way towards the small doors in his van, where he kept his ammo, magazines and a very limited stash of clothing. He opened the small door, his legs wobbling after driving for a little over four hours without a break. It was funny; on his own, he could spend days without stopping. But during those past few weeks with the girl, his energy seemed to drain out completely._

_Oh well, he mused as he took another shirt from the messy heap on one of the shelves. She would be going soon. It was only a matter of days before she finished her little project. Only a matter of days before he could feel alright with himself again, and not feel the crippling guilt every time he thought of her, the possibility of her. He was doing it again; thinking of her while crumpling the shirt inside his fingers._

_(The light of my life, the fire of my-)_

_(Stop it.)_

_In his daze he failed to notice a small pile of assorted items fall off the shelf. He released a groan as he saw the mess of magazines and clothes, not because of the mess that he had to clean, but because he failed to notice that the pile was about to topple over. He was losing his touch. Damn this lovely girl._

_The shirt he picked out was thrown behind his back, onto the bed. He would tend to it later. Meanwhile, he rummaged through the pile, taking one shirt and folding it lazily, taking one magazine and flipping through it before putting it aside. He was barely half a minute into doing so when he noticed a small string. His brow narrowed as he slid it on the tip of his middle finger. He cautiously raised it up, just until he saw the small crocodile teeth hanging from it. They dangled in front of his face, bemused by the blast from the past. It was a necklace; a necklace that originally belonged to his sweet Caroline._

_The corners of his mouth twitched upwards as soon as he thought of her. His sweet, precious Caroline… before she broke his heart and left him a miserable shadow of a once proud man. That little trinket brought back memories that hit him faster than a speeding freight train. He gave it to her into two weeks of knowing her, promising that she was the love of his life. He was so young then, so foolish. Not much older than Pepper is now, he noted. It was back when he believed in love, when he believed in happy endings. _

_She was so cheerful, that Caroline. She had a way of getting what she wanted; she knew her way around a rifle. She was the best hunter Mundy had ever seen, excluding himself. Her presence was a breath of fresh air, spot of bright light through the thick clouds after a storm. It was her absence that broke him, that made his wall crumble around him. It imprisoned him, leaving him assured that he would never find happiness with another person again. He was not bothered by this. Over a decade of being completely on his own, he found out that there were a lot of things he could do alone. Not every joy had to be divided into a small group of people. _

_This is why he was terrified of his contentment he was experiencing now. _

_He held the necklace tightly, grabbing the tooth and allowing the string to fall over his knuckles. The sun shined from the window and across his fingers, marking them with long, even streaks. He had almost forgotten about this little trinket. And there he was, wondering. _

_He once made a promise to a man, a complete stranger he came across one Christmas Eve. During small talk, the necklace was mentioned, and the back-story behind it was out in the open as well. Mundy said that the necklace would no longer represent a symbol of love, but rather a symbol of lenience. He vowed to toss that silly thing to the first person he found tolerable. The first person he didn't truly hate at first sight would receive it, and it would be able to do whatever it wanted with it._

_The promise he made to himself was there, hazy and distant, but present nonetheless. _

_He stood up and walked out into the hot air that surrounded the camper van. He glared at the bright blue sky from behind his aviators. He stood still for a couple of moments, shirtless, the necklace in hand. It was as though and invisible force dragged him out in the open, without him resisting it or agreeing with it. _

_There was no wind blowing that day, and the air was stale and heavy. The hot dirt burnt his feet as he stood outside, facing away from the long, narrow road. _

_"Hey, Vic!"_

_Pepper called out, and almost immediately he faced her. She was lying on a thin towel, raising up one of her long, browned legs. The skin seemed to shine against the surface of the sun. They weren't covered, seeing that the girl was wearing a pair of short denim shorts, complete with an oversized shirt that she tied in a knot, exposing the small bulge of her stomach. Few buttons were undone, just enough to show the area under the neck without presenting too much. Thick sunglasses were put over her eyes, covering most of her round face. One of the lenses, the left one, was covered by a strand of bright red hair. The rest of the locks were tamed, put behind in a ponytail that fell lazily over her back._

_And as he watched the little brown-limbed doe, Mundy could only think of Caroline, her tendency to leave whatever she was doing and go outside for the sole purpose to catch some more sun. She was amazing in those little puerile ways. Mundy blinked once to get Caroline's image away from him._

_"Hey," the girl began, ticking her finger towards the item tucked in the marksman's hand; "what's that?"_

_The man coughed once, shaking his head to clear his vision. Gingerly he brought the necklace upwards, allowing the girl to see it properly. On the spot, he made up a short cockamamie story of its origin. The girl listened with detached interest. At one point, he even noticed that the girl was not even looking his way._

_"Are you alright, Sheila?" He asked, seeing that his words barely went into her head as he spoke. "Something wrong?"_

_"Nothing!" She said, her eyes running back to his face. She smiled sheepishly, trying to sound earnest. "Absolutely nothing."_

_"Anyway," Mundy began, taking a step towards the girl; "I figured these would look better on you than they would on me." His finger ran over the exquisite ivory teeth._

_"You… you want me to wear it?"_

_"May I?" He asked, stretching out the necklace to her._

_Pepper puckered her lips at the gesture he made, stretching out the string. She then formed her lips into a cheerful smile and nodded hastily. She turned away from him, moving her hair out of his way. The man kneeled behind her, able to smell the earthiness of her skin. He gently threw the necklace over her head, slowly bringing the ends of it into a small knot. As he tied it, his fingers brushed against the downy hairs at the back of her neck. For a moment, he only saw Caroline's neck, soft and as white as snow. If he didn't discipline himself, he would have run his lips into it, caressing the tender skin over the smooth line and up to her chin. But he reminded himself to maintain his level of formidable self-control._

_The necklace was placed on her, the crocodile tooth ornaments fell over her collar bones. She turned to him, fingering the smooth surface. She looked into his eyes, steely and icy-blue. _

_He thought that giving it away would be like giving up all the thoughts he had of the possibility of love. If the trinket no longer belonged to him, he would have nothing to be reminded of. But there she was, this creature. She was so lovely and so frighteningly young. And for a split second, reality changed. He was no longer Victor Mundy, the head hunter that frequently shaved off a couple of years off his original age, lived in a van and despised all human contact. For a mere moment, he was Vic, and adventurous and callow teen, who borrowed a van from his best mate and was now on a hunting trip with a charming, brown-limbed girl._

_So short a second it was, and it managed to ruin his life._

_"How do I look?" She asked, batting her eyelashes._

_"You look… enchanting," he said. _

_"Thanks, Mundy."_

_It truly is amazing what our id can do to us, overpowering our super-ego. During that second of bewilderment, the man cupped the girl's firm face in his hands, lifting it up. His heart began racing, his body was becoming hot. Her fingers ran through his unkempt hair but he had become numb to her touch with eagerness. Her mouth opened slightly as she leaned her head to the side. He was just about to do the same, to clash into her sweet little lips, when a voice stopped him._

_(This is wrong.)_

_Three words. And suddenly he was the grumpy old pervert again, holding an innocent girl half his age. Suddenly, that feeling of self-disgust was back. All because of those three words, his sanity's last plea that came in rushing like a horde of elephants._

_(This is wrong!)_

_The girl was still awaiting her kiss, her eye opened while Mundy kneeled by her, grains of sand attacking his knees. He had a forlorn expression. She gazed up at him in puzzlement._

_"I can't," he finally said, standing up and walking back to the van. The girl watched his back, covering her stomach and bringing her knees closer to her body. She felt exposed, filthy. Mundy saw her, curled up and pitiful. He spoke once more, with a heavy heart._

_"You're a great kid, Sheila. But you're still just a kid."_

_The van door closed with a slam. That should have been the end of that._

* * *

Except it wasn't.

He lay on the cold floor, reliving those three weeks he had spent with her. He remembered every word, every movement, every embrace shared. Every kiss and every small tear of hers came rushing in. And he often forgot that the girl was a being of her own, a woman of flesh and blood, and not just a perfect replica of a love lost. He regretted it. All those moments spent with her were rushing back to kill him.

As blood trickled down the corner of his mouth, and while his eyes finally focused on his surroundings, a thought crept over his mind as clear and bright as a star.

He should have left her to die. He had a choice between her life and his freedom, and he regretted picking the former.

This was the first thought dedicated to her that did not make him completely ill. He regretted nothing.

The Engineer stood over his body, glaring daggers at his flesh while Irene wept, hiding her face behind her hands. She spoke of the tape she received, a long roll of film that made her very being shatter. Hot tears rushed through her fingers as she spoke quickly, her weeps intermitted by sobs.

"And then it was gone!" She said to nobody in particular, her lips tightening and trying to restrain a gush of emotion. "It just… vanished into thin air. I thought I was crazy. I thought I made it all up… and now he's here."

Her misty eyes fell on the marksman's frame, and he slowly moved to pick himself up. The Engineer beat him to it, picking him by the collar. The tall man's body felt limp and lifeless. The Texan growled. A part of him wanted to strike him again, but there was no more use. The punches did not make him any less livid, and the Sniper was already beaten badly, his head lulled and his eyes rolled back. Whenever the Australian opened his mouth to speak, a croak came out but nothing with it. And what was he going to say, anyway?

_I'm sorry I defiled your perfect little angel. I'm sorry she enjoyed it._

It was no longer pain he felt at that moment. The sensation could have only been defined as relief. A man was being punished for a thing he wronged years ago, and it felt necessary.

The Texan, meanwhile, was not as calm. His body shook and his iron grip tightened around his collar. The hands refused to crawl up to the marksman's neck, for now.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" He let the words slither through his mouth. All the insults, all the yells of pure rage were spent in the past few moments. Irritated by the Australian, he tossed him on the floor. The Sniper fell on his side and rolled on his stomach, holding his sore shoulder and groaning in pain.

"Get up!" The Texan demanded, kicking him in the back forcefully. "Get the fuck up you bastard!"

The Sniper propped himself on his hands, barely keeping his head up. Soon his weight shifted on his extremities and he was able to stand on his feet, as stable as a table standing on one leg. The images flashed around the room, the images of the Engineer's fuming expression, the Spy's disapproving frown that flickered towards him as he consoled Irene, and the lady of the house who would occasionally wipe her tears away only to show a look of hate and schadenfreude.

The man couldn't even stand up straight before the Engineer punched him in the jaw once again. This sent the man back a couple of feet, but he managed to keep his balance. The tinkerer stayed in front of him, exposing his teeth and clenching his fists. One could hear the blood pulsating in his veins.

"And I'm hearing about this now?!" He began, his voice loud and piercing. "All those fucking years… and now you have the courtesy to tell me?!"

The Sniper breathed heavily, his hand placed on his gut that felt oddly out of place.

"Look…Dell…"

"I mean, what-!" The Engineer clasped his head in between the palms of his hands, flinging his body sideways. "What in God's name were you even thinking?! Do you normally do this, go around driving in that disgusting van of yours and abusing young, innocent girls?!"

"I didn't want it to happen, I swear!"

"Well too bad! Too fucking bad! Well it did happen, and you can't even be decent enough to come clean about it!"

"Dell, please…" the Sniper said, barely having enough strength to keep himself up on his feet, let alone argue with the furious man. "If I could go back and correct one thing-"

"You can't!"

"I know. Just-" He swallowed some saliva; the foamy liquid seemed to stick to his dry throat, closing it up. "I can't… I can't tell you how much I regret it. I never wanted to hurt the girl. I would never, it was just…"

His eyes were locked on the Texan, standing where he was and eagerly expecting a statement. The Australian closed his eyes, already knowing that there was no way to make this situation worse than it already was.

"…it just happened."

For a second, the Engineer stood completely still. Then he guffawed, only once. He tossed his hands up; the furious Texan vanished just for a moment.

"_Just happened," _he repeated, craning his body to the side before looking at the marksman again. _"Just happened- _I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

He ran to him, the sharpshooter had enough time only to flinch, not even shielding himself for he knew that he fully deserved this beating. But then, the only thing that stood in between the two men was a masked figure, holding the Texan by the forearms and pushing him back.

"That's enough!" He insisted.

"Let me go!" The Texan cried, trying to free himself. Irene, meanwhile, stood up and watched the action.

"Dell, this is not the-!"

The Spy was punched. The blow made his head roll back, but he managed to stand his ground and pry the Texan away from the rigid Sniper.

"Don't touch me!" Dell bellowed, fuming and foaming at the mouth. "Get off me you idiot!"

"Dell, stop it! This is not the time or place for this!"

"The man molested my baby girl!"

"It wasn't like that!" The Sniper began, hopelessly trying to defend himself. The Engineer tried to charge at him once more with a cry of fury. He was successfully held back by the Spy.

"Whatever he did, it was long before the Infected became an issue!" The Spy stated, not too loudly but clearly. His words rung through the base. "In case you've forgotten, there are millions of those things around us, and we cannot risk losing a sniper! Our group is in disarray as it is! We do not need this!" He slowly moved his head closer to the Texan, and his next words were the force that stopped the inertia of his anger.

"It would not be worth it."

The Texan suddenly stopped. The red, stiff expression was gone, as his body filled with a feeling of emptiness. He waited until the Spy released him, and then he moved. He did not walk towards the Sniper. He walked to the side, straight past Irene. She stretched out her arm, trying to console her husband, but retracted it with haste as it came just inches away from his shoulder.

Dell looked into the tips of his boots, mumbling to himself.

"I loved that girl. I remember the first time she came home, from the hospital. She was… the size of a loaf of bread," he said, a sad chuckle leaving the back of his throat. The three listened to him intently.

"She… she stretched out her arm and grabbed my finger… and I found myself wondering… _How can something so small be so remarkable?... _And then…" he sniffed once, putting his hands inside his pants pockets and bobbing down his head. "And then she-…she just became this amazing little creature. The best thing that ever happened to me. I woke up in the middle of the night to see if she was breathing, I couldn't bear the thought of losing her. I fed her, I drove her in my car on those nights when she couldn't sleep. When she was older, I taught her to ride her bike. I never let her drive too far away from me… Just a block, maybe two."

The Sniper's shameful gaze flicked from Dell to Irene. That was the first time that he saw a tear flowing down her cheek, a sincere tear of pure love mixed together with pain and heartbreak.

"And then," Dell continued; "I remember when she woke up, crying. I ran into her room and sat on her bed. And then I'd put my arms around her," he mimicked the motion, crossing his arms over his chest and putting the palms on his heavy shoulders. "I'd rock her, tell her-…tell her everything's gonna be okay. No matter what happened, Daddy was there to keep her safe. She was my little angel, the little diva running around the living room, singing _Maria_ and trying on Irene's dresses." He chuckled one more time, but the sound felt like a dagger to the heart. "And then… she left. She left, and she didn't need her Daddy anymore. And now this."

His arm flailed at the marksman's direction. He did not budge. Slowly, the Texan looked up into the ceiling, holding still for a couple of moments before shaking his head.

"It's like… it's like my baby's gone." He turned to the side, looking at his wife. She lifted her chin up, eager to hear him.

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Irene. I'm sorry you had to go through that hell. And I'm sorry you're reliving it again."

His wife gave a curt nod, internally grateful for his apology, no matter how insignificant it might have sounded.

He wanted to say more, but found himself leaving the room. His sigh was hollow and seemed to drag on for hours. The Spy moved out of the Sniper's way, excusing himself to Irene and walking out on the balcony, desperate for a cigarette that he did not have. Irene nodded in his direction and looked at the Australian.

Finally, it was just the two of them.

"Irene…" The Sniper started, wringing his hands.

"Get out."

The man was baffled by the command, delivered without a hint of vulnerability. His head ticked to the side.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, it will take more than an excuse, Mundy." She walked to him, glaring. "What you did was disgusting. Disgusting and vile. And I had to witness the whole thing. Mundy, you are a pervert. A pervert and a pedophile."

"Irene, I'm- AGH!"

The woman grabbed his neck, pushing him down until he was on his knees, clawing at her hand. Her eyes had gone completely white as she frowned; the intense rage was so extreme that beads of sweat appeared over her furrowed brow. The marksman was beginning to lose precious air.

"I have waited many years to do this. I dreamed of killing you, destroying you for butchering my daughter like that! If I waited another day, I wouldn't even be speaking to you right now. I would be holding your head under an axe, striking your back before I finally chopped your head off in an act of mercy! You would not live to see another dawn, Mundy."

Her head came closer to his face, already pale and shivering. Droplets of blood fell on her hand.

"I will never forgive you for this. You are lucky we need a good sniper, otherwise I would throw you on the floor and stomp on your spine! I would beat you so hard that you would piss blood! I would rip your fucking head off and shit down your neck!"

Her grip loosened with no warning. The man fell, gasping and holding his bruised flesh. The woman stood above him with the posture of an Amazon warrior. Her voice was now hard and determined, compared to the shrill, angry cries of graphic promises.

"But I will let you off. This time. I want you out of this house. You can go live in that filthy van of yours, you can sleep outside in the rain. If you set one foot inside this house… I will destroy you."

The last words were stressed and dragged out. The man managed to get up, his vision hazy and his legs disobedient, walking him to the side. Irene clenched her fists, trying to cool down the urge to hit him, to knock him off his feet and break his spine. Instead, she pointed towards the door.

"Now get out of my house, you fucking piece of shit. And if you ever…EVER!... talk to Sarah again, I will cut your fucking dick off."

With that fair warning, the man scurried outside. The door slammed behind him with a furious yell, followed by the shattering of windows.

"PERVERT!"


	22. The Book

**A/N: **My final attempt at making my OC likable before I... *slides hand across neck in swift motion*

* * *

Even as an outcast he had a duty, a home to protect. Even though he did not reside in it, given the circumstances, he still needed to protect its residents. He spent the days sitting inside his van, mostly doing so to avoid the lady of the house who was always busy with gardening. She never missed an opportunity to hiss out an insult. And he would accept it with a straight face, wondering if she thought of it on the spot or if she spent a full day thinking of it. Some were unusually elaborate, some were surprisingly lazy. And after everybody was asleep, he would climb up on the roof with his sniper rifle, looking out for the Infected that might be lurking. Even as an outcast, he had his duty, and as a professional, he fulfilled it well. And all that was asked of him was not to communicate with the residents at any given time.

Sadly, some of the residents couldn't help but to communicate with him.

The Australian was looking deep into the starry sky, covered with small, uneven patches of grey clouds. It had stopped raining for now, but he felt as if the storms would continue quite soon. But until that storm came, he would not be sprinting for his camper van. For now he would be sitting on the rooftop, occasionally looking through the magnifying scope of his sniper rifle, looking for Infected scum.

He noticed one particular thing about those things; they stopped coming in hordes. Naturally, one or two came around, tired and starving, sometimes making it all the way to the house if they were too stubborn to get killed off by a sentry. The marksman took care of those with ease, at times not even needing to use a single bullet. As time passed, less and less Infected came their way, and he recalled the very few hordes the group came across were becoming smaller and smaller in size.

Unfortunately, so was their group. This meant that not another life was to be wasted. He sighed, pressing his eye against the scope and looking into the distance. Little could be seen in the darkness, but everything could be heard.

The man jolted in his place as he saw a figure appear on the roof, next to him. He held his weapon up and pointed it at the creature, his body completely rigid. His breaths were quick and panicked, but soon settled as he saw that the creature was not an Infected starving for his flesh.

It was Sarah, climbing up from the hatch that lead to the attic. She held a couple of cans inside her hands. The man was more terrified by the girl's presence than ever before.

"Sarah, what-…?!"

"Shhh!" The girl instructed, bringing her index finger to her puckered lips after shifting the weight of the cans in her arms. The marksman then remembered that he was not supposed to have any social contact with the girl, so far as Irene knew. He looked around before lowering the volume of his voice, whispering as the girl sat beside him.

"What are you doin' here? You're supposed to be inside."

"What? And letcha starve to death?" She asked, placing the cans of food into his lap. "I managed to sneak these out from the pantry. I thought you needed some food."

The man examined the label of Campbell's beans with detached interest. He muttered thanks to the girl, but added that he was already hunting his own food. The girl smiled, looking into the sky.

"Hunting what? Squirrels?"

"Got a can opener for this?" He asked, lifting the container up. She nodded, handing over the small tool.

Crickets chirped in the distance, the natural silence of a country night interrupted by Sarah tapping her feet together while she was sitting, and the marksman discarding the metal lid and digging his fingers into the can's contents. The girl watched him eat the food as though it were the first thing he had tasted in months. She felt sorry for him. Less so for his hunger, and more so for his loneliness, being forced to spend these past days outside. The emptiness of the plains that spread around the base made her fully aware that they were alone in these parts. But at least she had her family to turn to. This man had nobody.

"_Nobody knows the trouble I've seen_…" she sung softly, ignoring the man's irritated gaze; "_Nobody knows but Jesus_… _Nobody-_"

"Uh, Jellybean? You mind singing something else?" He asked, starting to get annoyed by the drab tone of the song. "Like something with a little more… bounce in it," he said after a brief pause.

The girl pressed her finger against her chin, contemplating the possibilities. She opened her mouth after a deep inhale.

The shrill sound that left her throat at that moment made Sniper's skin crawl.

"_I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts, there they are, all standing in a row_…!"

"No, no, no, anything but that, please!" The Sniper exclaimed, a bit louder than he intended. Sarah lowered her hands which she used to flail around to the beat of the song. For a second, he thought that he heard Irene's furious footsteps, climbing the endless stairs and coming to chop his head off with a kitchen knife. But then he realized it was just the wind. Sarah smirked at his expression.

"So, how's life treating you?"

"Can't complain. I get a lot of fresh air here…"

"You smell," Sarah noted, holding her nose. "I'd say you need a shower. But with any luck it will rain soon, and you won't need it."

"…thanks," The Sniper retorted with a wry smile. Not being keen on stopping making a point after an ironic answer, Sarah continued;

"But you know, you could get pneumonia if you sit in the rain too long. You'd die. So it might be better if you stink."

"Why are you here, Jellybean?" The Sniper asked through a desperate sigh.

"Why are _you_ here, Snipes?"

The man was slightly baffled by this question. He responded by giving quite a banal answer, that did not seem to satisfy him or her.

"I'm uh… I was told not to be in the house."

"…because of what?" Sarah asked, propping her body on her hands and leaning forward. As she did so, the Sniper noticed a small book hidden behind her back. He did not focus too much on it.

"Because, uh…" He looked away, staring into the distance but not acknowledging anything that his eyes fell on. They shifted from point to point as he looked for an explanation.

"Because… your parents and I… we had a disagreement."

"Concerning what?" She insisted on a clarification. The man wished that the roof would collapse under him.

"Well, uh…" he gulped; "They recently… understood… that at one point, your sister and I… were very good acquaintances. And, uh… there were certain aspects of our relationship that they did not, uh, approve of."

"I see," she said, sitting up straight. "So basically, they're mad because you two had sex."

The word made the man's skin crawl for some reason. Maybe because it was the girl who had said it when an old assassin couldn't. He shifted nervously, placing the rifle from his thighs and on his side.

"In… a nutshell, yes."

"Well they were right about doing so, it's disgusting," she said flatly. "I mean, my sister was an idiot, but that was no reason to take advantage of her."

"I did not-!" He tried to protest but was stopped.

"And don't give me any of that: _she complied, and it's okay because she was eighteen. _It isn't okay! You were eighteen for eighteen years before she was eighteen! You should've known better!"

"…did the Spook send you here by any chance?" He asked, feeling as though these words could only come out of a child who had either listened to her mother's angry nagging for hours on end, or had just received detailed information about her approach from a cunning and quite sadistic Frenchman.

The girl shook her head vigorously, continuing her rant.

"Look, I understand that you may have, might have, could have cared about her. But that was even more of a reason not to sleep with her! If you really cared about her, you would have never touched her! There are some things a teenager just can't understand. Even an older teenager, like her. It's not too hard to comprehend."

The Sniper huffed and dropped down the can of beans. He was angry, but not at the girl. Hell, she made sense, and he knew it.

"Don't you think that I know all this? Don't you think that I regret it?"

"I know you regret it, but that doesn't make it better. You might be remorseful, but as long as my folks are concerned, you're basically Humbert driving Lolita around in a camper van with a rifle in the back!"

"Hey!" The Sniper exclaimed, pointing at her as tension grew inside him. The girl watched with steely eyes, not even budging as the man spoke. "Don't you reference Lolita to me! After Pepper happened, I studied that damn book! It was not like that!"

"Of course not! Humbert wasn't a paid assassin."

Victor Mundy never hit a little girl. But at that moment, he was dangerously close to. He huffed, unclenching his fists and counting to ten. The girl watched the redness seep out of his face with a look of satisfaction.

"The point is… what you did was wrong. I will never deny it, and I doubt you would, either. But, my parents made a mistake by shooing you out. It was a melodramatic thing to do. In this crisis, we stick should together. And frankly, I don't care enough to kick you out for a mistake you did five years ago. I understand that they're upset, but going this far is…well…" She shrugged as she finally found the word she was looking for; "…childish."

The man smiled at the girl as she took out her book and reached it out to him. In the dark, he couldn't even make out the title, apart from the fact that it consisted of a couple of letters. He slowly grasped the cover and squinted at it, the letters now forming a year. The girl was somehow delighted by his interest in the reading material, even if it was just the cover of it that he read so far. She then remembered why she came there in the first place.

"I'm uh… basically here to let you know that I still think of you as a part of the group, even though my folks want you brutally slaughtered. At least my mom does, my dad doesn't talk that much about you. I don't think he wants to. But until he does, I got you that book to read to pass the time while you're up here. You really, _really_ don't want to know what's going on in the house. It's like a bad soap-opera. It's worse when you have to live with it, though…"

As the Sniper ran his hand over the covers, he noticed that this was the same book Sarah had read on the way to the base, looking into its pages intently as a horde of Infected attacked them. He almost smiled at the memory of those, simpler times. The group was happy and… whole.

The nostalgic smile vanished from his face and was replaced with a serious expression, holding back a frown. The little girl did not seem to notice his sorrow. She was looking at her feet, hidden in her dirty old sneakers.

"I don't suggest you read that book around my folks. They'll know I was here, because they know it's mine. And you be careful with that book now, it's my favorite! I loved Orwell ever since I was seven and read Animal Farm, thinking it was a kids' book."

Her nose wiggled to the side as she remembered the satiric fairy story.

"You know… I liked the book, but I hated the ending," she said, averting her eyes from the man and looking at the hatch she came through; "It was like nothing really changed from the beginning. But then again, I suppose that was kind of the point of the story."

The Sniper dropped the book down on his knees, resulting in a soft thud. With a smile, he turned to the girl.

"You know… you're pretty bright for a kid. In fact, you kind of remind me of my godchild I left in Australia. She was pretty clever for her age."

"You have a godchild?" The girl was intrigued, not crawling towards him to hear more but obviously burning to do so. "I never would've guessed. What's her name?"

"Dolores."

"…Haze?"

"_Sarah_."

"Okay, okay, last time, I promise." Sarah smiled fiendishly. "Anyway, I'll make sure to visit you as much as I can. If you die up here, I'll push you off the roof so you don't stink up the place."

"Thank you. It's nice to see that everybody is thinking about my death," the Sniper noted in a flat tone. The girl raised up her arms in a defensive manner, looking down.

"Hey, now, I'm just saying…"

A thought swept across her face. Her expression suddenly changed from a joking smile to a deadpan gaze. Her arms lowered and were crossed over her legs. She spoke quietly, and almost shyly.

"Hey, Snipes… if you do happen to die up here…" she turned to him; "what should I do with the body? You know, _after_ I roll it off."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Well," the girl started as her fingers coiled, her thumbs making an awkward little waltz; "When I die, I want to be placed under a willow. When I was younger, the willow on my Grandma's farm was my favorite place in the world, so putting me there is like putting me a step closer to heaven. I don't want to be buried. It's too dark in there…"

Her eyes went bleak for a moment. When they shot at the mercenary, he was forced to think about the sore subject. He felt uneasy thinking about it, a little because he wasn't expecting the question, and a little because he wasn't expecting his death. A sigh escaped his throat.

"You know… I really don't care what you do with my body. I just want to leave something behind for people to see."

"Oh?" Sarah's eyes widened in intrigue.

"I…I want-… I want people to know my name, ya know? I want somebody to remember me."

"How? You want like a statue or something?"

"Nah, not a statue. Maybe a…" His hand flew across the air that stood in between the two. He shook his head, almost mocking himself. "Forget it," he said quickly; "It's a silly thought."

"No, no, no, I wanna hear it! Honestly!"

With a hopeless sigh, the Sniper realized that it was better to give in than to endure twenty minutes of begging before succumbing to her. He looked in her direction.

"I want an inscription. Something that will get people thinking; _Who was Victor Mundy? What was he doing here? _That sort of thing."

"That's it?"

The man nodded. The girl stretched her lips, contemplating the idea. The man who never talked about anything wanted to be talked about. There was nothing strange about that. But let's not think about that now, she reminded herself. Her mother would soon become suspicious.

She picked up the empty cans and the can opener, muttering something about needing to go back inside the house before her parents realized that she was missing. The Sniper waved to her as she slowly went into the square hole in the roof, going down the rusting ladder. Her head was peaking out of the hatch, her eyes sparkling at the man.

"I really hope you come back soon. The group ain't a group without you. I think so, the Spy thinks so, my dad thinks so too, but won't say it…"

"Uh-huh. Sure. But I'll still keep my distance. Yer mum still thinks I'm a deranged lunatic, and I'd hate to piss her off any further." The man looked at the rectangular hardback in his hands. "Thanks for the book, Jellybean. If nothing else, it will keep me occupied."

The girl glared at the book for a few moments before responding.

"A lunatic is just a minority of one," she said as the hatch closed, leaving the marksman alone.

And the girl tossed the empty can behind a large wooden crate sitting in the attic. She hummed a cheery little tune about coconuts, dusting off her hands.

* * *

The girl scurried to the Spy, leaning on the doorframe with a distant look. It was late, and he was wide awake and craving a cigarette. The wanting made his body shake, and he could only control his spastic movements by indulging in one of the chocolate bars he had stolen from that market. Those little treats came in handy, in more ways than one. But in all honesty, he would have thrown them all away for just one thin, long stick of nicotine and tar.

But there was no time to think of that. The girl walked up to him, empty-handed. She did her part and now expected payment where payment was due. The Spy released a very long, loud sigh.

"He took the food?"

"And my book."

"Did anybody see you?"

"Nope."

The man looked at the girl's eager expression, practically demanding her wage. She did a good job, the Spy thought to himself. She soon embraced the chocolate that came out of his pocket. It was the only one left in the base, so she was told, and the first one she had tasted since they ran out of cocoa powder a little over a month ago. She munched it greedily, the coconut-covered candy smearing over her lips. After a while, the Spy asked her a question.

"How is he?"

She swallowed the morsel inside her moth and answered, picking at the bits that were lounging in the back of her teeth.

"He's okay, I guess. He's kind of distant, but what else can you expect from Snipes?"

"I see."

The girl took another bite of the chocolate before her gaze shot up at the Spy, noticing the worry in his icy-blue eyes. She knew exactly where that worry was coming from, because she felt it too. A little group they were now, and the last thing anybody needed was to be separated by inside conflict. No matter how bad the Sniper's action was, it was not Irene's place to jeopardize the group. They needed him. Deep down, even Irene knew that. She had to.

But the strangest thing about the entire thing was that the Spy, the always aloof and standing idly by Spy, was now the only one who remotely cared for the well being of the group. At least enough to send Sarah to deliver the man's food as he distracted her prying mother.

"I appreciate your assistance, Sarah," he said in a soft tone. "There are some things in our group's dynamic that need to stay intact."

"Snipes not starving to death is one of them, I reckon."

The Spy blew some air out of his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he had experienced for a while. The chocolate disappeared from Sarah's small hands, and the wrapper was placed in the back pocket of her faded jeans. She smiled, showing her dirtied teeth.

"You know," she started; "I'm glad there's at least one more person who doesn't want the whole damn thing to fall apart. The only person with some hope left. Everyone else here acts like… like they're peas and mashed potatoes."

The Spy kneeled in front of the girl and ticked up his eyebrow, scratching the back of his neck. In his minor confusion, he didn't even mind getting dust over his knee.

"Peas and…?"

Sarah almost laughed as she saw the Spy's puzzled expression. She maintained to get by with only a small smirk as she clarified.

"Yeah. Ya know how people don't like peas and mashed potatoes to touch? Well, it's kinda like that. But I figure, times like these, you can't afford to be picky. Hell, that's why I always mix mine together, in a big lump of mushy, beady stuff." She tried to describe it further by clumping the air in between her hands. The Spy watched the motion with a cynical gaze.

"Anyway," she continued, putting her hands away; "that's what the group should be like. A big, lumpy mush. It's weird and all, but there's a lot more of it."

The Spy blinked once in complete silence.

"Sarah, I don't know if it's the insomnia or nicotine withdrawal, but that actually made sense."

"The chance of me actually being smart ain't even a possibility, huh?"

"Absolutely not."

"Well, thank you, Spy," she said with a wry smile. The man smiled back, looking at her softly. He let his arms fall to the side, his fingers coiling, inviting her towards him. Her brow suddenly furrowed as she stepped away, running her gaze over his frame and shaking her head.

"I ain't giving you a hug after that."

The corners of Spy's mouth fell downwards. The girl scoffed, half-disappointed about his reaction. Sarah began to walk down the narrow hall, quite slowly. Her words echoed as she spoke, loudly enough to play through the emissary's mind like a broken record, but quietly enough for her parents downstairs not to hear.

"And for future record, don't use me as your messenger. Go see Snipes on your own. Ya know you want to."

_"Gamine…" _he muttered to himself minutes after she left.

* * *

The food kept coming, though the Sniper did not expect it to. Sometimes the child brought it over; sometimes the Spy managed a visit. The two would gaze at the base, onto the graves of their fallen comrades. Those visits wouldn't last too long, and the suited mercenary always returned to the house, feeling just a little bit sadder than before.

The marksman did not mind those visits. He gladly accepted all the food he received, charity or not. A starving man could not be picky, and he always found it intriguing how the two visitors would always chuckle to themselves whenever they delivered cans of peas or mashed potatoes. They never said why the particular foodstuffs were so amusing.

He read that book Sarah had given him. It was quite intriguing, though macabre at points and somewhat grotesque. For a reason, the future the book depicted seemed better than the present they were living in. There were no Infected, if anything, and everything seemed to be organized much better. Sarah would constantly ask him about the book, sometimes complaining about the man reading it at a snail's pace.

She stopped visiting about two days after he had finished the book. At first he thought that her parents had caught her, that she forgot about him, even. But as time flew by, an ominous presence sullied the air. The sky was turning gray and putrid, the grass seemed to wither. All that came with the passing of the seasons, Sniper mused, but there was still a certain chill in the air. Not a chill of the cold, but a chill of an ailment.

It soon turned out that the illness wasn't affecting him, but rather another member of the group. Spy snuck up one day to break the news, and it hit the Sniper hard on the head. The thought pierced through his skull, like a large caliber bullet. It was so sudden, so coldly delivered that in the end, he felt only a little bit queasy. The news was presented quickly, with very little explanation. It consisted of a single sentence.

The beginning of the group's end was marked by the Spy's muted words;

"Sarah is sick."

Cholera.


	23. The Queendom

**A/N: **Updates shall be slow for now on. Seriously, if I upload _one _chapter in the next two months, consider yourselves (un)lucky.

(Depending on whether or not you like my story.)

* * *

That poor, stupid girl.

She knew that the water was tainted, and yet she continued to drink it anyway. She sent off her share that her mother boiled straight to the exiled mercenary. All the water had to be filtered and boiled. After it had been tainted with Infected blood for weeks, one should not have simply drunk it so carelessly. The blood was gone, but the water was still tainted, soiled with tiny microorganisms whose existence Sarah often forgot about. As clever as she was on occasion, she was still a child. An impatient child at that, now lying on her bed, shivering with fever, possibly regretting those minutes she had saved by not boiling her water.

The Sniper woke up from his uneasy sleep, his eyelids heavy and dropping down. Through the speck of light that flew over him as he woke up in the unkempt bushes, he could see the Engineer, the Spy and Irene standing in front of the house. The Texan had his arm around his wife, trying to explain something to her. She was facing away from the Sniper, but the marksman could imagine her look of horror and fright.

Through the chirping of the birds and the screech of the magpies, the Sniper could make out their conversation.

"Do you have to go?" Irene asked, clasping her hands together. The Texan shook his head.

"Look Irene, our little girl is sick. We have no medication, no antibiotics, hell we barely have any food! I have to do this."

"You could get killed!" She cried, taking a step closer to him. "At least let me come with you!"

"No, Irene," he said sternly; "You have to stay here and take care of her. And we need somebody qualified to look out for the Infected."

The man turned his head towards the Spy, burying the palms of his ungloved hands between the gaps of his crossed arms. He was looking into the distance, stoic but still worried about the fate of the group, now as illness spread in their group as well as loss in numbers.

Irene gazed at the suited assassin wistfully, but could not hide the disappointment in her eyes. She would always be dear to her husband, he will always love her. He will never once think that she is qualified. At that point, a thought struck her. What if he was regretting bringing the two of them along?

Her worry switched to anger as the Sniper appeared behind them and attempted to speak. His voice broke as the Texans cut him with their looks. He cleared his throat and continued to speak, to excuse his presence.

"Are you…?" he acted as if he were not eavesdropping. "Are you going somewhere?"

The Engineer watched him with narrowed eyes, his gloved hand clenched into a fist. His lower jaw stiffened, but he managed to release his grip on the air, sighing to calm himself.

"Yes. I'm going to town."

Irene looked livid, watching her husband speak to the man.

"Wh-what for?" The Sniper questioned quietly, before Irene pushed her husband aside and bellowed at him.

"Why should you care, you miserable sack of shit?!"

"Irene, move." Engineer's voice was cold and steady. Irene extended her arm out towards the marksman.

"But he-!"

"Irene, I mean it!"

The spouses maintained steely eye-contact for some time, and the rigid, icy gaze remained eyen as Irene walked behind him. When she was out of his way, still glaring at the Sniper but not in position to yell at him, the Engineer took a deep breath and spoke to the man.

"Sarah is sick. I have to get into the nearest town and see if there are any Survivors. They'll probably have medication."

"Can I…can I come with you?" The Sniper asked, wringing his hands, genuinely worried about the girl's well-being. He was still uneasy about talking to the man after what happened not too long ago. "If you want… I can even drive the van."

"That will not be necessary," the Engineer replied.

"Please, I'd hate it if Sarah were to suffer."

"I told you, Mundy, that will not be necessary!"

"Come on, Dell, please!" Mundy walked closer to the man. Irene put her hands on her husband's shoulders, lifting herself up and staring down at the slim man.

"If you don't shut up right now, I swear to God, I'll-!"

"Irene!" Dell shouted into her ear, and she cowered back. She muttered something under her breath, a minor insult. When she was calm at last, the sharpshooter spoke.

"Please, Dell… I know I made a mistake. If I came with you, it will hardly make up for it. But… I really want the Sheila to get through this. If I can help in any way, - sniping, driving, anything! - I want to do it."

The Engineer considered his offer. The man did not want to be with this monster that defiled his daughter, but the only other option was to leave him with his wife and child while he was away. He would rather have his eye on him.

The air was cold and did not stream. The sky was an almost sickly grey.

"Meet me in front of your van in five minutes," he said in a hollow tone, walking away and going for the camper van. "And bring your gun."

"Thank you," the sharpshooter said with a nod. The Engineer did not respond, clutching the wrench in his hands tightly. He looked almost homicidal, and Mundy wished that no heads would be bashed with the tool. He swallowed some hot spit just before Irene stood in front of him. Her eyes were glassy and her hands crossed over her chest. Though tied-up, her hair fell over her pale face in lifeless strands.

"I hope you die out there," she said at last; "I want my husband to be alright, but I want those Infected scum to tear you up strand by strand."

His response was not expected, but in a way, she had it coming for a long time.

"Fuck off, you dime-an-hour whore."

Irene practically turned green with rage. She released a long, loud growl as she charged for him, her limbs flailing in the air as Spy held her by the waist.

"Irene, stop it, he's not worth it!"

After a brief fidgeting, the woman had to comply. She shook her head at the monster of a man and stormed into the house. The Sniper watched her leave.

"Thank you."

"You were lucky. One day, I will not be there to hold her back. And when that day comes…"

"…may God have mercy on my soul?" The Sniper suggested. The Spy shook his head with a cynical grin.

"I do not believe that God has any power over her."

The Sniper really wanted to snicker at that, but a smile could not creep over his face.

"Stay cautious. The Infected wandering about are ruthless," warned the Spy.

"I will. Thank you."

"Are you scared about the Infected attacking?"

The marksman's mouth opened to speak, but closed as he heard the noise of a wrench smack a piece of metal. His eyes widened at the sight of the Engineer clutching the tool, watching the dent in the van. He panted heavily; his face was red and sweating. The Sniper gulped at the sight, albeit thankful that his van fell victim to that outburst, and not his cranium.

"Believe me mate," he said finally; "the Infected are the last of my worries."

* * *

The German slowly woke up from his nightmare-ridden slumber, his eyes focusing on the drop of water that scattered across the cold concrete floor. His nerves tightened, he remembered what they had done to him since the day that he walked into the Queendom, tired and hungry. They gave him food and shelter, in return he only asked for directions. But then he found out the Queendom's gruesome secret.

Nobody was ever to leave it.

Three figures stepped into the dim light. He recognized them instantly and growled, his spectacles becoming foggy with rage. Jack snickered at him.

"Praise the Queen, Identified Trespasser. Slept well?"

The German breathed heavily, his chest rose with every attempt to make a sound, to respond to the mockery. Sadly, he could barely manage the strength to even stay awake. Jack knew his discomfort and took great pleasure in it.

"Well… I see somebody is not adjusting to the conditions as well as our new survivor."

Picking up a long, leaking hose off the ground, the man's captor grinned at the sight of the heavy, bald man who stepped forward. The captive recognized him instantly. Even behind his dark blue overalls and a bleak, glazed-over gaze, the man knew who he was, and hated Jack for doing this to him.

"He was easier to convert to the Queendom than you were," Jack continued, looking at the heavy man. "All it took were a few educational videos. Sadly, IT, you are a bit harder to recruit to our Queendom."

The German hissed in pain as the chain around his wrist chafed the surface of his skin, but was soon silenced by the ice cold, heavy flow of murky water that flew out of the hose. It slapped him, hitting his abdomen and face until he couldn't move. He tried to scream, but the water filled his mouth, and he was left an inaudible figure, his mouth agape in a shriek of horror. As the hose finally shut off, the water pressure coming down to a couple of drops falling from the nozzle, the German panted in their direction. A wall of pure, unadulterated hate came between him and Jack.

"…IT gets the hose again," Jack said to no one in particular, chuckling.

The Medic watched the heavy man with a plead in his hazy, icy-blue eyes. The man simply turned on his heel and left the cold, dark room. The two figures soon followed.

"Please!" The Medic screamed to the third figure, standing idly as he turned to look at the pathetic Identified Trespasser. The German could not tell his facial features because of the mask he wore, but out of all the other members of the Queendom, this one seemed the least sadistic.

"Please…" he said through a sigh; "release me."

The man turned his head away abruptly.

"I am afraid I'm in no position to do so. Nobody is to ever leave the Queendom. You will be released when you decide to cooperate."

"I will never cooperate after what you have done with my friend!" The Medic shrieked, tugging at the chains. He felt the icy, coppery blood trickle down his nose. "Why do you treat me like this? I am a Survivor as well!"

The man stretched out his arms and sighed.

"All Survivors are equal, Mister Dienstag…"

The large, metal door closed shut with a series of clicks. The Medic watched them in horror, shrouded in darkness once more. He was trapped in this storage, surrounded by bombs and ammo, for what seemed like an eternity. More than once did he want to take one weapon and end his misery, but that meant giving up on his dream of the perfect, undefiled Ukraine.

The slim man's voice echoed in his mind.

"…but some Survivors are more equal than the others. Praise the Queen."

With those words, he departed.

* * *

The unoccupied road seemed to stretch into infinity, leading nowhere but still managing to draw the two men away from their home. Driving in silence, as awkward and repulsive as it ever could be, the two scoped the area with alert eyes. The longer they drove, the more they couldn't see. They now knew how much the Earth was changed.

They remembered every inch of the old dusty highway, but they did not share their memories. It wasn't the time or the place, especially considering how painful those memories were. A small town stood there, right there, barely ten miles off the road. It was an old, abandoned, gold rush town. A few Infected wandered around the wooden buildings without doors or windows. Now it was gone completely, destroyed by those beasts. And that one town was not the only settlement destroyed. The longer they travelled, the more debris they saw, it was becoming more and more clear, the gruesome truth.

Sarah will not make it.

They will not make it.

Just like these, the group will disintegrate, fall like a ton of bricks on a hard, hot pavement. They will crumble and burn like Rome.

The Sniper's gaze fell on the Texan. He wished not to speak to the marksman, looking at him was out of the question. He watched the plains move swiftly over the horizon. A shrub there. A community torn down. That was all. That was all there was for three hours. The sharpshooter watched at the back of the Texan's neck with wide, regretting eyes. He looked up straight ahead, taking note of the thick, grayish-white clouds that stretched across the sky. There was a smell of lead and water in the air.

"Looks like it'll rain," he stated, less of a warning and more as a light conversation-starter. This only made the Texan worry more. He said nothing in return. The pain in the Sniper's gut grew stronger. Smacking his dry lips together and swallowing the node in the depth of his throat, he spoke once again, this time timidly.

"Look, I-" he cleared his throat; "I know this is hard for you. I know… I know you're worried, and me being here isn't exactly helping you deal with… uhm…"

The Texan, as uncomfortable as he was, kept his deadpan gaze and let the man continue.

"I just wanted you to know that… I never wanted to hurt her. Ever! And I… I don't want anything bad to happen to Sarah, either. So…"

The Texan's expression remained stiff. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth. The Sniper expected a response, but instead, he heard a hopeless sigh.

"It's no use. If we don't find a town in thirty minutes, we head back."

"But Dell-!"

"I said," he said with a serious frown, looking through the marksman; "We. Head. Back."

The Sniper nodded.

"Right."

And as he straightened the steering wheel and moved to the centre of the road, a flicker of hope rushed straight out of him. A thought came inside his mind and ticked away, unfolding itself until it was vivid and clear, almost palpable.

He had ruined the group.

That one sentence was cut short as he saw a wisp of smoke in the distance, far across the plain. It whooshed into the grayish sky, twisting and coiling. The man's eyes narrowed behind his aviators.

The Texan jumped in his seat as the tires screeched, the vehicle made a sharp turn to the right. And soon they were off the dusty road and driving over the gravely dirt. The tires ran over small stones that made the vehicle bounce, and the men were hardly contained in their seats by their seatbelts.

"Where the fuck are you goin'?!" The Texan asked the determined Sniper. The Australian did not answer, and instead sped up.

Where there's smoke…

And soon the Engineer's frown shifted forward, and even he could see the smoke flying in the air. And the longer they drove, the more he could see; houses, a small chimney blowing steam and ashes, a couple of vehicles and a tall statue. The structure consisted mostly of metal and cotton sheets that wrapped it, giving it a strange, very basic shape of a female figure. Still squinting at the small town, the Sniper neared a large wooden arch that spread over the entrance, framing the passage between the two columns of small houses, something to be defined as the main street. He stopped right in front of it.

Words were written on the dark wood in red paint;

**_ALL SURVIVORS ARE EQUAL_**

The eeriness flooded over the two, as if somebody had poured a tub of ice-cold water on them. Without even looking at each other, they stood up from their seats. No Infected were in sight. The small town seemed virtually untouched, the houses were still whole and a couple of vehicles were parked, wedged between the buildings.

The paint was still wet.

If there were going to be antibiotics anywhere, they had to be here. Even if the two did not truly believe it, they took out their weapons; a shotgun, a wrench, a knife and a sniper rifle. First came out the Engineer, holding his shotgun close and looking around the seemingly deserted town. His ears perked up as they picked up an unmistakable beeping sound. His muscles tightened with anticipation and wariness.

The Sniper soon followed him, leaving the door of his van open in case the two needed to make a quick escape from the area. The air was stale and putrid, sweet like when opening the inside of an old closet, after it had been locked for a little over a decade. Wood was in the air. Wood, smoke, blood…

The Texan did not pay any attention to the Sniper, who had taken upon himself to inspect the area. He walked under the archway and stopped dead in his tracks. Something flew over him, through him. Though he had no means of explaining it, he knew that somebody was watching, and possibly through a magnifying scope. His eyes shot up, trying to locate anybody who might have been watching. However, the small buildings were highly good spots for observing trespassers, and the only tall building was a clock tower, right behind the ten-foot statue. The actual clock on the tower was missing its hands; the numbers were written on it but they seemed pointless. Maybe this was a message. Maybe this act of vandalism was there to illustrate that the passage of time did not matter in this town. Either that or the hands simply fell off due to negligence. Above the watch, there stood a long black board, a screen of sorts. The Sniper did not know what to make of that, but he did know that nobody was hiding in that tower.

His eyes turned to the statue in front of him. The image it showed was vague, featureless. He could only guess that the statue was that of a woman, and only by its leanness. It stood on an improvised stand; a wooden crate. But the improvised stand was not what caught the Sniper's attention; it was the inscription on it. Five commandments, carved finely inside the wood.

_1. A group is only as strong as the weakest member. Kill off the surplus._

_2. If the group splits and riots, the Queen decides which division to exile._

_3. No motive is greater than protecting the Queen and her herd._

_4. Mind your movement. You are being watched._

_5. Above all, never forget your savior. Long live the Queen!_

Primitive. Very primitive, the Sniper took note as he tried to suppress the anxiety bubbling inside.

The marksman was then called with a simple "hey" coming from the Engineer. He jolted up and sprinted towards him. The Texan watched a contraption with narrowed eyes, his hands placed on his knees.

"Whaddya make of this?" He asked, squinting at the mechanism.

The Sniper was never an expert on any type of machinery or technology that did not drive on four wheels, but even he could tell what this thing was. It never represented a problem to him, even though most of his teammates spent most of their days running away from those things. The tripodal device scanned over them, slowly spinning, waving its head from side to side, possibly looking for something of interest. As it moved, it buzzed and cracked, the motion held back by the rust and dirt it was covered with. The barrel was pointed straight at the two, but it did not fire. Normally the shiny blue coat over the metal was something to be feared, a cause for alarm. But now the mechanism glazed with a thick film of rust was about as dangerous as a newborn kitten. The Sniper's jaw dropped in awe.

"It's a sentry!" He exclaimed.

"I know it's a sentry, you dumbass," the Engineer responded with a low growl; "A BLU sentry at that. Question is, why ain't it shooting us down?"

_"You RED bastards ain't a priority now."_

The two turned sharply, pointing their loaded guns at whoever the voice was coming from. And as soon as they saw them, memories came rushing through, along with thousands of unanswered questions.

There they stood; the majority of the BLU team. They all wore navy-blue jumpsuits along with heavy black work boots, and every single one wielding a weapon pointed at them. Scars covered their faces and arms, their clothes were dirtied with blood and dust. Their skin was dry and their cheeks sunk into their faces, and the notorious BLUs now looked more like skeletons than actual human beings. The Sniper cringed upon looking at the skeletal arms of his rival, stretched as he held up his SMG.

The REDs were almost speechless.

"You!" The Sniper exclaimed. "But you were… you… I thought you disappeared!"

"Disappeared?... Oh, _that! _Yeah, we_… _We ran into some trouble while we tried to find our refuge from those Infected. We were forced to hide out here until the hordes dispersed. While we were hiding, we realized that this place wasn't too bad of a sanctuary. Easy to get in, true, but it's also stacked with supplies. Folks that were here must've fled in terror. Lucky us! We decided to stock up and rejuvenate for a few days. Days became weeks and…" The BLU Engineer shrugged, gesturing to the town surrounding them; "…here we are. And here _you_ are. Safest place in all of America. Uh… don't worry about this next thing; standard procedure for all newcomers. Stevenson?" He looked to the right, at the Bostonian in navy-blue.

The BLU Scout ran up to the men, too shocked to even pull their triggers. His weapon was lowered, but he still made physical contact with the men; touching their necks and arms carelessly, to their cries of protest.

"No bite marks," he said with relief after finding nothing more than a few contusions. "They're clear. Praise the Queen!"

The two watched with narrowed eyes as the Scout ran back to the men, who now lowered their weapons and looked at them with an odd air of friendliness. Noticing the look of disbelief, the Texan pointed towards the sentinel.

"Those sentries were configured to attack those Infected bastards; they sense the toxins in their skin. Our Medic helped us configure it, 'fore he died," the Engineer tried to clarify, bowing his head down in silent sorrow. He soon looked up, forcing a smile. It was an odd act, as though he did not want to be seen grieving.

"What are you REDs doing here, anyway?" asked the BLU Engineer with a very unnatural hospitable grin, which nobody in particular found pleasant to look at. The RED Sniper shifted on the balls of his feet, clearing the back of his throat in order to answer.

"We were just-"

"Do you know where we can find some medicine around here?" The Texan interrupted, taking a single step forward. He expected a straight one-word answer, but instead, the identically-dressed BLUs watched each other with quizzical expressions. Words were muttered among them, a couple of coughs and obvious expressions of confusion and fright. With every second that passed in this chatter, the Texan grew more and more impatient. His nostrils widened, and the thin veins surrounding his fist began throbbing. His blood was hot and restless.

"What do you need it for?" Asked the Scout, tugging at the hem of his jumpsuit.

"I need it for my daughter, now tell me where to find it!" He insisted. More muttering. More stomach-churning insecurity.

The chatting was interrupted when a masked man spoke up, dropping his still-lit cigarette on the ground. Smoke wisped through his nose in a sharp exhale.

"You need to talk to Jack."

The men's heads craned towards the Spy, now dragging the cigarette butt across the soil with the tip of his leather shoe. He noticed the men's puzzled expressions and moved his head towards the large clock tower. Now being watched by numerous eyes, it seemed taller, oddly macabre. Something was surely rotten in the Queendom, whatever it was called. And that rotten substance was located in that tower, along with Jack. They were sure of it. The fine hairs on the REDs raised, bumps covering their bodies. They never feared the BLUs during battle. It was when they put their weapons aside that they became truly formidable.

"Jack is your direct connection to the Queen. Speak to Jack, and maybe the Queen will answer your request."

The Sniper watched the tower with narrowed eyes while the Texan thanked the Spy. Soon he moved his way swiftly across the square, maintaining a pace that would have impressed the deceased Soldier. His shotgun was secured in his hands, his finger on the trigger. They did not kill them yet. That did not mean that they will not change their minds.

As they walked, the Spy watched the tower with a frown. The group dispersed in their separate ways, possibly to find a better look-out to observe the trespassers. The two that remained were the Spy and the Russian, looking at his former comrades with glazed eyes.

"Do you remember those men, Heavy?" He asked. The large Russian shook his head.

"I remember nothing that I saw beyond the Queendom," he admitted. Slowly, his eyes widened in interest. "Why? Should they be familiar to me?"

"No," the Spy responded after a pause. The Heavy's training took too long for him to be disobedient towards the Queen. Anything less than complete and total adoration towards her would not be tolerable. He certainly did not want the incident with their Heavy to repeat itself. It was only natural of him not to recognize the world beyond the Queendom.

Hopefully the IT will not recognize them either.

* * *

Jack's body was pulled up the perch with a loud, grueling grunt. The metal shook under the figure's weight. The hands gripped the bar, already sleek with sweat. The two men walked inside the dark room in the very core of the clock tower, and were now watching Jack doing his daily, rigorous exercise regime, a way of keeping the mind and body in check and servicing the Queen by doing so.

The room was an almost pitch black, with just enough light for them to make out the figure that was pulling itself up on the metal piped sticking out of the wall; the bare back with beads of sweat rolling down it, the hair shorn short. The arms were muscular and quite large for a person Jack's size, and the Sniper almost feared the man turning and seeing them, already imagining what the beast looked like face-to-face.

The Texan paid no mind to Jack's appearance, instead taking in the atmosphere. The air reeked of mildew laced with metal and an odd, steamy scent, like electrocuted human flesh. It was freezing cold. When the Texan exhaled, a puff of smoke emerged from his lips and flew over the room. The thick gust almost illuminated the room in all its grey. A song was playing inside the room, slowly and jittery. A broken, scratched record.

_Try not to get worried, try not to turn on to  
Problems that upset you, oh.  
Don't you know  
Everything's alright, yes, everything's fine.  
And we want you to sleep well tonight.  
Let the world turn without you tonight.  
If we try, we'll get by, so forget all about us tonight…_

Jack's ears perked up.

As the muscular figure jumped down and stared at the trespassers, they took in the very basic form of their host.

Jack wore a jumpsuit, much like the other Survivors, but it was hanging over the hips, exposing the lean back and muscular abdomen. It was covered by a very small wife-beater that failed to conceal the many scars across the forearms and neck. Jack's eyes were small and hard as marbles, cold and emotionless. They were framed with thick eyebrows and deep, dark circles that hung below the small, dark spheres. Jack's nose was slightly crooked, as though it had been broken time and time again, never quite settling properly. Under it, there was a small mouth with almost razor-thin lips, folded into a frown of distrust.

_Sleep and I shall soothe you, calm you, and anoint you.  
Myrrh for your hot forehead, oh.  
Then you'll feel  
Everything's alright, yes, everything's fine.  
And it's cool, and the ointment's sweet  
For the fire in your head and feet.  
Close your eyes, close your eyes  
And relax, think of nothing tonight._

But even in this darkness, some things the men could not miss. Even in such brutish state, the person before them failed to conceal the high cheek-bones and the small mound under the white cotton, held down with gauze and tape. And though the arms were strong, the fingers were thin, quite nimble.

And this was possibly the biggest shock that the two REDs had yet to face that hot autumn day.

Jack was a woman.

"Praise the Queen. Whaddya want?" She asked perfunctorily, pulling the long sleeves of the blue jumpsuit over her vascular arms. Her eyes were still on the two, glued to them.

The marksman was the first to speak.

"Uh… Jack, is it?"

"Who's askin'?"

"We…" the Texan began, but then coughed to clear his dry throat. "Hello. We are Survivors that came into this town in search of antibiotics for a member of our group. We were wondering if you could help."

The woman zipped up her garment and stood akimbo.

She sighed and turned on her heel, facing the darkness behind her.

"Praise the Queen!" She said sternly into the cold, unforgiving void. Her voice echoed around it.

The music stopped.

The wall lit up, first a bright white and then in color, slowly showing a bloated image before the three. Jack looked at the screen calmly, not even blinking, while the two shielded their eyes for the fear of going blind. As the brightness settled, their eyes adjusted to their surroundings, and there they saw her; the Queen, in her wondrous golden locks and a pink, sequin gown. Her teeth were impeccably white, almost like small shards of porcelain. Her sapphire eyes pierced the room, focused and dry. Her skin was smooth and a lovely shade of peach. But even in her magnificence, she sent out an aura of dread, like seeing a glowing image of a person that came back from the dead.

The Queen was an unmistakable image of Emily Payne.

_"Hello, Jack!"_ She cooed, smiling.

The Sniper's jaw dropped. The Texan frowned upon the figure. Jack sniffed and nodded towards it. She craned her neck to the left to gesture at the gentlemen, cracking the thing in the process.

"These men came here looking for antibiotics. We have any?"

The Queen chuckled at the absurd question.

_"Of course we do, silly! The Queendom is rich and plentiful! Everything they need is here! Including me!"_

The Queen then looked at the two men, still bewildered by the sight of her. She smiled coyly and looked to Jack.

_"Hmm… I fear that I will need to know more on why the men are really here. Be a dear, Jack, and leave us to discuss the issue."_

With a curt nod, Jack left the room, swaying her hands to and fro. She soon disappeared behind the two men, and soon they could see nothing of her. The only thing she left were the echoes of her footsteps and the creak of the door just before it slammed.

_"Now, gentlemen," _the Queen started, clasping her hands; _"What seems to be the problem, darlings? Rest assured, your Queen will help you overcome it… as long as you're here."_


	24. The Catch

**A/N:** After a bit of studying_ Animal Farm_, _1984_ and_ Fahrenheit 451_, I realized I had no idea what I was doing with this Queendom thing. So I'll just wing it.

Sappy intro in italics here because of relevance to the plot.

_"The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies."_

Me? I comment on her having a nice ass and leaving her a bit self-conscious for the rest of the day.

* * *

_The cold streets were wandered by many poor souls that lost their homes and loved ones during the bombing, and were now punished for the actions that they did not wrong. Their punishment was to stay alive as the others were embraced in the sweet comfort of Death. Those were saved from the poverty, the fear that the living lived in. The emptiness of a once proud, bustling town made the living weary. Some fell on their knees and cried, looking at the crumbling foundations of their childhood homes. Some lay in their beds and shook. And others searched for life's meaning, like ghosts, like ghouls._

_God blessed the angry ones. Their rage kept them alive. The ones who were left with sorrow were left lifeless, without a purpose._

_One of those worthless ghouls was a tall, slim man with greasy caramel locks that fell over his sunken cheeks. He clutched his aching stomach that growled like a beast due to its starvation. There had been no food in that town in a long while. Even if there had been some food, he refused to eat. Some Resistance member he was, unable to save his fellow men living in France. He knew this would happen, he had means of stopping it, he had means of saving his friends, his family, the children that looked up to him as he told them his tales of wonder and marvel, and yet…_

_And yet he failed. _

_He walked the streets of the crushed and crumbled, the dismembered and the disemboweled. _

_A small pebble fell at his feet._

_As he looked up ahead, he saw a small boy sitting on the filthy grey street, tossing away some stones that fell off the crumbled buildings. He held each in his hand briefly before he tossed it away, striking nothing in particular and actually performing the action with little interest. The man recognized the boy almost instantly. His face might have been bruised, his pants might have been torn, but he could say with all certainty that the boy was an acquaintance. A rich child, who came with his older sibling to Marseilles, settled in with his rich aunt and uncle and absolutely despised all things poor. He was now sitting on the road and throwing rocks into small pavement cracks for his amusement, wearing nothing but rags and a frown. The man felt slightly uneasy when the child looked up, striking him down with his icy-blue eyes full of fury. A small stone was still tucked in his fingers and slowly shifted between them._

_ This was the first time the man saw the boy since the bombing, the first time he ever saw him alone. He usually dragged himself behind his overly protective sibling, who took great pleasure in calling the man an idiot every time he commented on her brother's upbringing. At times she was quite obnoxious, almost as much as the man was when he gave his critiques; she sometimes took to bringing the tip of her finger to the bottom of her upper teeth._

"I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I do bite my thumb," _she would say._

_And then she left with a conceited grin, knowing that the man knew nothing of Shakespearean dialogue._

_The lack of her presence was oddly disturbing. The man swallowed some hot saliva as the boy stood up, his fists clenching._

_"Hello, Adrien," he greeted, not accustomed to seeing the boy so livid. He barely got the sentence across, when the boy responded._

_"What do you want?" He said in a hostile tone. The man's head leaned to the side._

_"Adrien, have you seen your sister lately?"_

_"Why should you care? Why should you care if she's buried under a pile of rubble somewhere? Why should you care if she died?!"_

_The man's jaw hung ajar._

_"… I care because I worry about you two. What has gotten into you?"_

_"You don't care." The boy said in a hollow tone, tightening his grip around the small stone. "You don't care about anybody. Nobody cares about us. Not the Resistance, not the Nazis, no-n-…nobody!"_

_The man watched with wide eyes, the boy took a step forward, two, three, taking his stand at about a foot away from the gentleman in the beige trench coat._

_"You promised me Marseilles was going to be safe! She promised! My mother promised! She died in Paris and so should I! I never deserved this!" A tear flew from his eye as his voice cracked; "I never wanted to be lied to… You… You should have told me that this place was as dangerous as Paris, worse!"_

_"Adrien, listen to me;" the man commanded, shaking his gloved finger at him; "where is your sister?"_

_"I don't care! And I don't care if she's alive or not! She lied to me! She dragged me here all the way from Paris just so we could die!"_

_The man tried walking towards the small boy. He took him by the wrist firmly, but Adrien responded by flinging the small, rough stone into the man's cheekbone. He hissed and clenched his cheek, a small scratch appearing and decorated with tiny droplets of scarlet. They imprinted on his gloves._

_"Don't touch me! Leave me alone!" The boy cried, running away. The man reached his arm out and called his name, but the child ran too far into the fog. _

_Dominic watched the dense grey smoke before his arm fell to the side. All he could hear was the whooshing of the wind. For a second, he thought that something terrible had happened to the girl. She could have truly been buried under a pile of rubble and stone. She could have been blown to smithereens and eaten by starving alley cats. She could have been shot by shrapnel. She could have been clutching her bleeding body, crying, praying to God, dying._

_All the gruesome thoughts came bubbling to the surface, but he shut them out before they rushed his mind. Just then, his vision had cleared. He walked right through the fog, most likely running after the boy. He didn't know where he was. He did not recognize this town, his hometown. Damaged and foggy, twelve bodies lied around him, their blood pouring down the streets._

_Only a dozen. This cruel war made these casualties to be considered insignificant._

_And then he saw her._

_Behind the bodies, she kneeled, exactly twenty feet away from her uncle's home. Hot tears ran down her filmy eyes. Her hands were on her knees, and she slouched, not even caring about an old, toothless crone hovering over her, holding a large pair of rusty scissors and examining her frizzy curls._

_"What pretty hair," the crone said in a croaky voice, holding up the cutting tool; "…what lovely locks you've got there…"_

_"Get away from her!" Dominic commanded. The old woman fled, leaving behind the cold, shivering girl._

_He had never seen her like this. The lovely, sweet, feisty girl was now a wreck, as damaged as the buildings that surrounded them and just as lifeless. Not knowing what to do, how to react, the man walked towards her and crouched, muttering something to the old hag that ran into the milky fog._

_"Vultures," he noted with discontent. He turned to the girl; "Are… are you alright?"_

_The girl did not respond at first. She barely moved her head, and when she did, he could only see the cold in her eyes, the sorrow imprisoned in a case of salt water that bubbled at the corners of her eyes. Dark circles surrounded them, as deep as two fingers brought together and as black as the ace of spades. Her voice was thin, almost as though her words were spoken by a girl half her age. And those sobs… God, those sobs… they were like the collected wails of the wretched coming from the darkest pits of hell._

_"He's gone," she said, grimacing. "He's gone, Dominic!"_

_And just as she buried her face in the lapels of his coat, he knew exactly who she was talking about. She clenched them with her bony fingers, like she was falling and he was a thin yet sturdy branch that could save her life._

_"They took him away… I found out a few days ago… He-… we-… we were going to marry!" She wailed; "We were going to be happy! And now he's gone, along with everyone else! I lost everybody! My mother, my aunt, my brother hates me…"_

_Her lip quivered as she spoke in short exhales. Dominic saw her distress, desperately trying to comfort her. He took her hand in his, the hand he never held before. It was cold and dry, like a bone._

_"I can't-!" She continued; "I can't lose him! I can't let him suffer… I loved him!" She yelped into the sky, her frame shaking against the man's body. Thunder struck in the distance, as loud as a war drum. "I loved him! And now he's gone, he could be dead already! And I can't help him- I'm powerless!"_

_The last yell had her falling into Dominic's arms once more. He gulped and tightened his grip. She still shook, but it was somehow calmer. Her ear was pressed against his chest, and she now heard his rampant heartbeat. This calmed her. At least there was somebody that she did not lose, even if it was a person that she took for granted. She shooed this man away, she muttered under her breath every time that she saw him and what now? He was the only one left to hold her. _

_She let out a sigh._

_"Why does God hate me? What did I do to Him? I've led my life as nothing short of a good Christian, and what now? He took everything from me…"_

_"Lorraine, he did not take everything away from you!" Dominic insisted, holding her tightly. "He still might be alive, he might still return!"_

_"And what can I do to help him? I can't! I could pray, but to whom? Not Him. Not now…"_

_"Don't talk like that! There is still much to live for! Your uncle is fine, you are fine… Think of your brother, if nothing else!"_

_Her voice was hollow and reserved, her eyes shifted to the tips of her bitten fingernails._

_"I can never take care of my brother in this condition… I can barely take care of myself. Dominic…" _

_The man awaited her earnest words, but they way she told them was to horrifying to bear. His spine froze over and his heart skipped a beat._

_"I want to die. I close my eyes and wish for death, but then morning comes and I keep breathing. I curse every breath. Every day I go outside, hoping that this is a dream, hoping that I will wake up and see him… but all I see is blood." Her lips tightened; "Blood and darkness. My brother hates me and it's no wonder. I have given up on life. God is punishing me, why shouldn't I? He's punishing me for… for being born."_

_As gods in times long past did, as unforgiving to the girl as they were unforgiving to Phaedra and Antigone. Her tragic guilt passed on from her antecessors and resting upon her. And the action that triggered her punishment? Love. What God allowed that? What kind of God could hold a grudge for that long?_

_"I'm dying…" she said to the man. "I'm dying without him, but not quickly enough. God is merciful enough to give me a chance to save my brother. He's giving me a chance…" she sniffed; "He's giving me a chance to save him."_

_Her eyes shifted up, dark met icy-blue. The man's eyes flickered away._

_"What…" he gulped; "…what are you saying, Lorraine?"_

_Her throat was dry and her spit was sticky, she kneeled with bated breath. He couldn't refuse her. After all, he cared for the boy almost as much as she did. He told him the most fascinating tales; he gave him the finest treats he could muster. And above all, he was the only one the boy spoke to since the bombing, even if his words were abrasive. His abrasive words often held a plea. The sky shook with thunder again._

_"You… I want you to protect him."_

_"…Loraine…"_

_"I want you to protect him! He cannot die in this war! Please, Dominic! Whatever you do, don't let a child die in vain!"_

_"Lorraine, you're delusional, you cannot-!"_

_"I'm not delusional! Not yet! Now tell me, promise me he will be safe!"_

_"You are being ridiculous. It's understandable that you feel this way, but this is neither the time nor place-!"_

_"Dominic, please! Please, I'm begging you! You are the only one he ever looked up to; you're the only one that could handle him!"_

_The man's jaw dropped as he hopelessly looked around the shattered remains of a once proud town._

_"He threw a stone in my face; I hardly think he idolizes me that much…"_

_The girl grabbed him by the lapels and screeched, the veins in her tender neck popping out._

_"Please!"_

_"For God's sake what the hell do you want me to say?"_

_The girl's eyes gave out nothing but a plead, a desperate attempt to redeem herself as an able sister._

_"Just… say yes. Only yes. One word, that's all I need. Please… Fulfill my dying wish…"_

_A tear streamed from her right eye just as the sky began to cry. The drops of rain fell on her, she looked up. With haste, the man took off his long coat, exposing only a thin white shirt that was becoming transparent as the hard droplets struck it. He wrapped the fabric around her shoulders that jolted up with every weep. Her eyes watched the dark clouds that fell over her. _

_At that moment, the man said the word. He said the word, only to put her mind at ease. Who knew if it was ever going to come to saving him? Who knew if she was going to die? He tightened the coat around her._

_"Yes. I promise, Lorraine. Now let's go, you'll catch something awful in this rain."_

_Her lips spread into a small, almost sarcastic smile. Her hand reached out to his face, and now he could clearly see the small, golden ring that shone on her finger. He gulped._

_"Don't you fret, M'sieur Dominic… I don't feel any pain. A little fall of rain… can hardly hurt me now," she said through a painful chuckle. Slowly, her hand caressed his stubbly cheek. He closed his eyes as she touched him._

_"You are here, that's all I need to know…"_

_And slowly, the ring came off. The man watched with horror as she removed it and placed it in his gloved hand. He tried to protest, but she insisted, clenching his fingers around the small golden orb. A reminder, he told himself as her fingers coiled around his. A token of a promise made._

_"Now, for my pains…" she grasped his hand tightly; "promise me once more."_

_"Yes?"_

_"Promise me!"_

_"I promise you!"_

_A smile stretched across her face as she stated her command once more._

_"You will keep him safe," she said softly, the message carving into the back of his head until it was no longer an empty agreement. "And you will keep him close. And rain will make the flowers…grow."_

_With the corner of his eye that was still fixated on the gold, he saw the girl's eyes close. Her mouth became stiff, turning into a small line as she held back a whimper. It was let out, and her spirit came out with it._

_It was amazing, how some could rely that much on others. Usually confident, brave people who others often relied on. But those people needed their support as well. They needed somebody, anybody to share their thoughts with, to be with, or at the very least, only to know that they were there. And when those people are gone, what are they left with? Emptiness. Loneliness. Horrible, grueling pain. Sometimes, the pain leaves as time passes. But more often than not, it is this pain that kills them._

_Dominic held the girl in his arms, her skinny, shuddering form. Locks of her hair touched his face, and he could pick up her subtle scent; lavender and rain. The drops tricked down her body, unresponsive to his touch and now using the man as support, nothing more. He would hold her body once more, on a stormy night. It would be stiff, pale and bloody, and he will feel her coldness. For it was that day that she died, long before a bullet entered her scalp. She died as soon as her sisterly duty was complete, as soon as there was nothing more to live for. Detaching that ring from her finger, she gave up her life._

_She spoke her last lucid words that day. Dominic moved back an inch from her, after placing a brief kiss on her moist forehead and helping her to get up._

_"Did he…?" He swallowed; "…did he really mean that much to you?"_

_She remained quiet for a very short while, only allowing herself to inhale once._

_"Only the world."_

_Her heartbeat met his, and they continued to beat harmoniously, until she was in her shattered home, until she was in her lumpy bed, until she closed her eyes and wished for death as Dominic's hand brushed over her shoulder, covering it with a thin sheet. _

_And he kept the small token of his promise in the pocket of his tattered coat. He wished that he would never act upon it, never live to see the day when he had to take the boy under his protection._

_But the day came, and soon. The sky cried for her._

* * *

The Queen stared at the men who had just told her their tale. They spoke of the run-down sanctuary, riddled with rats and roaches. The hordes that attacked them took many lives, and many of their supplies were wasted. They had no means of packing up and leaving, as they knew that no place could possibly be safer than the hell that they were residing in. The Engineer spoke nothing of the turmoil that took place during the last few weeks. This Queen, holding the visage of Emily Payne, hardly needed to know about the incident that occurred a long time ago. The last thing he mentioned was the small frightened girl, red with fever and toiling in pain, tossing and turning in her sweat-drenched seats and starving herself. Her frail body could not consume anything and keep it down. He spoke about Sarah with evident desperation; his breath was short and interrupted. As he spoke, the Sniper watched the tips of his shoes in discomfort. Hearing about the pain was gut-wrenching; he couldn't imagine going through it himself.

The Queen listened. She nodded her head sympathetically, but at times her optimistic smile was nothing short of mockery. When the Engineer finished his story, the woman nodded once during the silence. She then spoke.

_"That truly is a terrible thing to endure, my darlings. Poor girl… why, I only wish that your lovely family could have come into this small town, to be looked after by me…"_

The Sniper's ears perked up. His head darted towards the screen.

_"Here we have so much to give… food to eat, clear water… it truly is a blessing that these BLUs wandered here to me. It is a good thing that I protected the darlings. You see, I always-!"_

"Excuse me," the Sniper said. Speaking out of place bewildered the Queen. She flew her eyes open and watched with a dimwitted expression. Even the Engineer glared at him, not believeing that the marksman could interrupt.

"If I may," the Australian said, briefly looking to the Engineer. "You said that the BLUs wandered off… to you…"

The Engineer watched the marksman attempt to pose a question with a furrowed brow that then shot up into his hardhat. He looked to the Queen, coyly moving her plump lips to the side.

She chuckled.

_"Well darlings, the BLUs did not need to come here. They were the ones who were supposed to get to Harvest, but…" _she shrugged, shaking her golden locks; _"they never made it. Their Medic had died shortly after they took off. Helen was livid."_

"Wait a minute, Helen?" The Texan asked the large block of light and color. She raised her gaze up, as though she had remembered something.

_"Oh, yes. Well, you see darlings; those lovely BLUs came here quite desperate. They had little food; little ammunition… the only thing they could rely on was sweet Emily's voice that went through the television screens and radios that were still hooked up in these old, abandoned houses. They stayed here, comforted by her singing, her calming messages of peace and serenity…" _

"Cut the crap, Queenie!" The Sniper snapped, to the equal shock of both the Queen and the Engineer alike. "What does Helen have to do with all this?!"

Shaken, but not at all confused, the Queen closed her mouth shut as she tried to think of a proper response.

_"Well, I never… but I digress. You see, after the team failed to reach their location, the group was left for dead. That was when you were dispatched, you see. Oh, but lovely Helen knows how to find people. She _is _the Administrator, after all," _she said, crossing her hands over her chest and ticking her head to the side, a warm smile making its way across her image. _"So she decided to take the lovely little broadcasts Emily had made. She had that sweet Pauling girl make the sound bites. All it took was a bit of rewiring the satellites, a bit of AI, a teensy-weensy bit of knowledge on facial motion and team organization and voila!" _

Her fingers snapped across the air as she stressed the word.

_"Those darlings are so lucky to have me… and since the Queendom project has worked so well, lovely Helen had hope that the Team Fortress Organization would be up and running in no-time! Ah! But alas… your team was the problem. One tiny little horde and your Soldier blows himself up? Tsk, tsk, tsk…"_

She tutted with her eyes closed, her head moving left and right. If she hadn't told the lot that she was a computer generated image, the fellows never would have known. The work behind her freckles, her veins and the motion of her hair was impeccable. It was flawless. It was…

It was doubleplusgood.

But less of the master craftsmanship, and more of the master plan. The Queen had more to tell.

_"After that dear, sweet Helen gave up on you. She continued to make her little empire and left you aside. Notice how you were getting raw, ugly material of deluded Emily while the BLUs were getting the wonderful little me? No wonder, really. All I had to do was smile and be perfect, and the group stayed together. Helen controlled me until very recently, before the power ran out one stormy day. She lost all control over me, though I remained fully functional. Such a shame that was… Anywhoooo, I took upon myself the leading of those fine gentlemen. How could I not? Those could not function without somebody constantly barking orders at them! You couldn't, either. So yes, to answer your question, it is lucky that they came across me. I am their Lord. I am their Savior. I am their Queen. And they will not leave me, even though I am nothing more than light, sound and a smidgeon of color, but I get the job done. You see, they can do nothing if somebody isn't bellowing orders at them. My lovelies are under my constant surveillance, and they couldn't be happier…"_

"Let me get this straight," The Sniper began; "You took all you could from that poor girl and twisted her into some disgusting creation to rule the masses?"

_"Not masses, mister Mundy… just an army."_

The man stood, mouth agape.

"You… you bitch."

He stepped forward and his hands clutched on the sides of his body.

"You took everything that girl had and lied to everybody! You took the way she looked, they way she sounded, and you used it to make this… dictatorship!" He gestured into the darkness they were trapped inside of. "You took away everything she had and twisted it. That girl was not the Queen. That girl was not you. She was a human being! With a personality, a heart and soul! Her image was not to be twisted! She was not to be turned into somebody else, you heartless bitch!"

_"But that's exactly what _you _did with her, didn't you, mister Mundy?" _She asked, her thin eyebrow quirking upwards. The Sniper's face drained itself from its color, until it was as white as a sheet. He listened to her shrill voice intently.

_"Pepper was not Caroline. But you wished that she was. Oh, you really did! You called her Sheila, to avoid using her real name. You did not even pay any attention to her until she picked up that rifle…"_

With the corner of his eye, the Sniper could see the Engineer boiling with rage. But he said nothing, he did nothing, he did not even move an inch for fear of making an outburst that would prevent them from acquiring the medication that they so badly needed. Mundy wished he had never said all that. But for now, he wondered how the girl knew about the affair.

Maybe there was still some Emily left in her. Maybe it was a human glaring at him from behind that cold, buzzing screen…

_"But we are here to talk about the little girl, are we not? Hm? After the Texan has lost one daughter, it would only be reasonable for him to try and save the one he has left…"_

The Engineer finally spoke, first exhaling, then taking a single step forward, towards the Queen's image that burnt his eyes with its brightness.

"You said something about bringing my family here…"

_"Yes, my dear! This place is safe."_

"Good. Oh, God that's good! Thank you!" He said with relief; "I will just need to contact my base and then our group can settle here, and-!"

_"Oh, no, no, no, my dear, you cannot leave this place," _she said sternly, with a childish yet stern look on her face. It was fairly similar to the one an order-giving toddler might have. _"Nobody leaves the Queendom. Those who come are here to stay."_

"…what?"

_"You cannot leave. Your family may come, but you cannot inform them that you are here. A proper utopia has no contact with the outside world, and the outside world must get to it without the influence of its inhabitants…"_

"What?!" The Engineer growled in disbelief. His teeth were clenching and the veins on his neck popped out, to the Sniper's worry and the Queen's amusement. "How can I help my daughter if I can't leave this place?!"

_"Catch-22," _she said with a grin. _"All utopias have them. Let's see, now… I think El Dorado had something similar; it could never have been found. But this utopia is in plain sight! Lucky, lucky you!"_

"This ain't no utopia, Queenie, it's a straight nightmare! And we are not sticking around to hear you flap your gob about your little worshipping _darlings,"_ the Sniper bellowed.

He did the impossible. For a moment, he silenced the Queen. Even the stoic Engineer could not believe his eyes, and he let his jaw fall slack. She watched with narrowed eyes and sat up straight.

_"You want to leave? Go ahead and leave. There is a briefcase filled with medication, a big blue one. There are bound to be some antibiotics in there. You can try and take them? Hm? Stop you? Oh, don't mind me, darlings. I am nothing but a few lights and pixels. What, oh what could I possibly do? I know you cannot leave this Queendom. I know because I know everything. And if there's something I don't know, I can convince everybody that I do. But, oh, how hard could it be to outsmart me, hmmm? Go ahead, darlings…"_

She spread a mischievous grin across her visage. The Sniper and the Engineer watched each other for merely a moment before they turned to the Queen. She showed her teeth, and growled her command through a smile.

_"…make my day."_

* * *

"Praise the Queen."

"Praise the Queen."

Dominic tucked his Ambassador in his jacket when Jack approached him. She held her flame thrower in her hands, spotted, singed and bony. The skin was practically peeling off of palms of her hands, and grains of dust and sand lodged themselves in between the layers of freshly-formed skin. She paid no mind to the pain. All for the Queen. All for her beloved Queendom. And if she cringed in pain, she knew that she would receive her punishment for showing displeasure.

But her pain was not the issue here. The Trespassers were. Dominic noted that they had not left the clock tower in quite a while. His mouth opened slightly to pose a question and then closed abruptly as Jack emitted a curt sigh.

"Those men worry me."

"Oh?" Dominic's head tilted upwards as he listened eagerly. "How so?"

"They came in search of supplies. I believe that they wish to return to their group. If feel like we've got a few more ITs on our hands…"

"I would not worry about them. Our first IT worked out just fine. He's interrogating the doctor as we speak."

Jack clutched her flame thrower tightly, still trying to maintain a deadpan gaze that a camera would not catch trembling with woe.

"Yes. But the German is still causing us many problems. He refuses to accept the concept of our Queendom, insists that leaving is the only answer."

"So he still speaks of Ukraine."

"Afraid so. And quite frequently at that."

Dominic's gloved hands inched towards his lighter that inhabited his pocket. He took the small rectangular box out. He had nothing to light, and just let it fumble in his hand like a dummy, something to keep his shaking hands busy. Jack watched the motion. Turning, twisting, repeating itself.

The air was slowly becoming heavy around her, filled with dust and smoke. Suddenly she longed for her optical mask. Longing equaled death. She smiled.

Noticing her forced grin, Dominic asked about the Trespassers.

"So what is their business coming here?"

"Whose?"

"The two men that came here."

"Forgive me," she said, bobbing down her shaved head. "My mind wandered off."

"Don't let that happen."

"Are you telling me what to do?" She asked with a hint of rage coming from her dead eyes.

"Why are they here?"

The Pyro waited briefly before she responded, turning her head back and exposing the blackened skin at the back of her neck.

"Nobody tells me what to do…" she said through her teeth.

The BLU Spy was less than happy about having such a nasty, disoriented Pyro on his hands. Noticing his penetrating gaze, she cleared her throat and spoke clearly. Her voice did not echo through the old, wooden constructions that reminded the Herd so much of their old military bases, like Gold Rush or Dustbowl.

"They are looking for antibiotics…"

"Yes, I know that."

"They need it for another member."

"I guessed so. We'll have to keep an eye out for them."

"The member is a child."

Dominic fell silent.

A child? That changed many things. A thriving community could not exist without children, of which there were none in the Queendom. They needed to live on and carry the Queen's name and glory with each generation. Here Jack was the only way of procreation. She was never quite interested in the act, and considered to be sterile. Nobody even bothered. They worried about the Queendom's existence, though to very limited extent. Worry meant dissatisfaction, and anything short of bliss equaled torture by a Herd member. The kind of torture that would make the current ITs treatment look like a Korean massage.

He remained speechless for a couple of moments, and he only spoke when he saw the Pyro's troubled expression. She looked around and watched the cameras surrounding them, a smile fixed up on her pale face. Dominic was quickly reminded of their Medic's torture. One day he tried to rebel. He was taken by the Pyro inside the clock tower there his cheeks were cut, so he could never stop smiling for the Queen. He bled out and died within an hour, sporting a grotesque grin.

The Spy shuddered internally. This did nothing to his posture, though his bottom lip fell slightly.

"A child?"

"Yes."

He slowly looked around, clutching the small lighter in the palm of his hand. He gulped. Jack found the action unacceptable.

"Are you worrying about the child's fate?"

"No. I just think that our policy should involve children. All Survivors should be equal, after all."

"They are," Jack tried to explain. "As long as they're here."

She turned on her heel and started to walk. The dirt crumbled beneath her heavy boots. She seemed somewhat satisfied with her part of the discussion. Suddenly, she heard a sentence that made her fingers curl and her body freeze.

"Is that why one of our members is tortured half to death?"

The note stopped her. She slowly looked in his direction, shooting sharpened daggers.

"He's here," he said with a shrug, grinning conceitedly.

The Pyro jumped and rushed straight towards him, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling his face towards hers. Her breath was warm and disgusting; similar to burning feces. He looked away. She, however, forced his head back towards her until she could know for sure that he was looking straight at her. She growled.

"Listen here, you little shit! You know damn well that's how we treat all of our Identified Trespassers. As long as he continues to deny the supremeness of our Queen, he will continue to live like a rat! And I don't want you gaining sympathy for those two, either."

Her eyes narrowed. Dominic suddenly felt something hot under his balaclava. It was his lighter, lit and safely tucked in Jack's hand. The yellowish flame gently caressed the fine threads of his mask. They burned, letting a coaly scent escape and fly into the Spy's nostrils. Jack continued;

"Whoever that child is, you cannot save it. Don't bother! The child is not Adrien. And that kid didn't make it, for all you care now. For all you know, he's probably dead by now, naked in a ditch, shot in the head after spending a lifetime sucking cock for cigarette money. Frankly, saving him was the stupidest thing you ever could have done. And who's to say that he didn't die as soon as you left him? Who's to say? Hmm? _Not _Lorraine, I'm sure."

The man knew for a fact that she was wrong. He was out there, somewhere. He might not have been well, but he was alive, thanks to him. His brow still furrowed as he looked away in disgust. He did care. He always cared. His fists tightened but nothing but a puff escaped his lips. Livid with her assumptions, his face turned hot and red beneath his balaclava. She chuckled at him.

"Listen now, shit! You _will_ praise the Queen; you _will not_ help anybody but your fellow Survivors. Those days of you saving kiddies like a momma bird are over. We can afford them to die, but we must stay in this group. And as long as you are in this group, you will listen to me. We may all be equal, but I'm far more equal than you. You see, you are Icarus…" she flicked off his lighter; "…and I'm the sun."

Fearing for his life, which she was willing to take even with all the cameras watching, he let his body fall limp. He knew one little thing about equality that nobody could ever deny.

Everyone's equal when they're dead.

He nodded once, wincing at her foul breath. Jack released him from her iron grip, looked around and forced a smile.

"Praise the Queen!" She waved to him. He could see the burns of her skin. He watched her leave, venom in his gaze but a smile on his face.

"Praise the Queen," he responded half-heartedly. He noticed a small silver lighter leaving with her. He huffed and stormed away, not caring about the Queen's omnipresent gaze.

_Fucking muff munchers._

* * *

The Medic's head lulled to the side as the Heavy dabbed his dry lips with a moist checkered cloth. Almost all color escaped his face; his body was reduced to little more than a stick figure. His hair was falling out and his teeth were browned, weak from lack of function, now that he had stopped being fed. Still, they needed him as a Medic. They kept him alive, and he hated them for that. Every night he fell asleep, hoping, yearning for the sweet liberation of death. But then morning would come, or he would get awoken by a splash of cold water or an electric charge. He would scream, and then his hopes of death would die. He loathed his rushed heartbeat.

His friend did not show any compassion either. In fact, at times, he was more ruthless than some other Survivors. He was the one who suggested the choke-pear technique. Whenever the IT wouldn't or couldn't say all five commandments, a steel rod with a round end would be pushed down his throat. The subject would then flail and gag. On occasion, he spewed blood after the rod had been taken out. Other times he passed out after panicking, fearing of losing his life on such cruel terms.

A cold bucket of water. A slap. Problem solved.

He would then be forced to repeat the commandments through a hot, fiery barricade of his mangled throat. By now the technique was distributed so many times that he would barely speak.

Addressing his former friend caused him immense pain.

"Heavy," he croaked, his eyes filmed-over and unfocused on the man kneeling in front of him. "Heavy… U-ukraine…"

His mentions of the world were intermitted. Surely his will to escape had withered away. Still, the idea stayed. As soon as the idea of Ukraine was lodged within the ridges of his mind, the idea of the Queendom could not replace it. Without a word, the Heavy stood up and left the room.

The metal door creaked and slammed shut.

The Medic's throat ached. In fact, every bone in his body ached. They were not broken; he needed those for heavy labor that was to ensue after he accepted the Queen. But still, his muscles atrophied due to lack of movement. He could barely move his head up. A flicker of hope still burned inside him, the thought of Ukraine's green pastures and blue skies. He wished for color. Everything was dark here. Everything was dark since the day he made that phone call.

A tear rolled down his cheek. His face was still expressionless. He breathed heavily with his mouth ajar.

The metal door creaked again.

Was it three already? Fifty lashes on the back, then. Unless it was one, in which case it was time for mental torture. There was nothing they did not cover. Calling his wife a whore had become an hourly occurrence. Even her own brother called her that a few times, having no idea who she was or why she should matter.

The Medic's eyes widened as he saw the frame of a large man. Something shone inside his hand, and the Medic recognized it. His eyes lit up, and that small speck of hope now became a roaring fire.

A man.

A key.

* * *

The small town was much larger than they had expected it to be. After walking away from the clock tower for almost twenty minutes, they reached a run-down apothecary. Still, supplies were inside; mostly bandages and first-aid kits lying about. The antibiotics were inside a small blue briefcase, sitting on a desk. The Sniper took it in his hands, while the Engineer looked around.

"Don't get too comfortable," he warned in a low, robotic monotone. The Sniper nodded. The briefcase felt unusually light under his arm.

They walked out and made their way straight towards the van. A small group greeted them, surrounding them from various positions. The air trembled like the skin of a drum. There was a fire burning through the magnesia sky. Dust flew across the path.

A Scout climbed the old buildings like a monkey. The Engineer banged a sentry with his wrench until it shook and moved. Many stood their ground, holding their weapons tightly. The two Trespassers felt as though they were watched through a magnifying scope.

And on the screen, there smiled the Queen. She might have been only a blob of light and color, but she was persuasive, nonetheless.

All were looking at the briefcase. She cleared her throat before she let her voice echo through the dusty Hooverville. It froze the men to their very core for only a moment, before they began running like hell.

_"Destroy them."_


	25. The Briefcase

**A/N: **My dear reviewers, your butts are like two scoops of caramel ice cream, and I love you.

That being said, I'm not particularly pleased with this chapter... this is why I don't write action.

* * *

The blood rushed through the Sniper's sleeve in a long, crimson squirt. He shrieked as he grabbed his wounded arm, and he felt the ever-familiar hot, sticky sensation that filled the palm of his hand. Pure whiteness shot over his eyes as his teeth grinded in pain, and he could only imagine the rival Sniper's smug grin as he returned to his camping point, once the RED was out of range. A few shots were heard, some coming from the shotgun of his companion, some from the weapons held by their enemies. The Texan took the briefcase away from the sharpshooter's wounded hand, and immediately became the prime target. All eyes were pointed at him. All weapons, too.

_"Destroy them, darlings!" _Cooed the Queen in her saccharine voice; _"Take back what is yours, and what I gave you! Protect the Queendom! Protect me!"_

The Engineer heard her voice, syrupy and sticky. It clung onto him, a painful reminder that she was the one causing all this trouble. She was the one that prevented them from escaping. She did not even care about wasting her Herd's ammunition and energy to attack two miserable men. A shower of lead fell over them, but the two managed to evade most. Even wounded. Even carrying a heavy briefcase.

A strong, pulsating mantra played in their minds. The only thing that kept them running, shooting, killing.

Their Scout dropped dead, the silly puppyish thing. He fired his gun at them as he climbed the wooden buildings, stopping only for a second to reload it. One second was all it took. The mercenary rose up his weapon and shot him in the hip. It was not a precise hit. If they had battled in different circumstances, that shot would have been useless. But the malnourished, exhausted, overall-clad boy toppled over, shrieking in pain. He fell off the construction and-

_CRACK!_

His neck snapped like a twig.

The men all looked at the Scout's stiff, breathless body for a moment. The two ran behind a building, out of their sight. There they sat, panting and clutching the briefcase. The Queen was becoming livid.

_"Get them! Get them! Get them, my darlings! Never mind the fallen calf, the Herd is still strong!"_

The RED Sniper listened to her voice that sounded like the hiss of burning oil. He mentally commanded her to shut up, his chest still rising and falling at a rapid pace. The mantra still played in his mind, like a broken record. It was a chant that was woven into the hearts and minds of many men destined to protect their tribe, to overcome nature's boundaries, and to make sure the young ones live long enough to carry on their clan name. The voice was brooding in their minds.

_Do it for her._

_Just do it, no matter what it is!_

The Engineer knew they were approaching. The ground shook as they stormed towards them. A quick, almost unnoticeable gesture; he reached out his gloved finger. The Sniper saw the gesture, stood up and ran.

After all those years of fighting together, the two men did manage to find a way to communicate. One errant twitch was more than enough for them to knew if somebody was injured, helpless, dying, or in this case, in need of a distraction. The man ran away from the crowd, foaming at the mouth and bleeding through his shirt. Blood was pulsating in his ears; his head was throbbing like the skin of a thousand battle drums. The Infected were nothing. The Infected were bugs. These were able, hardened men, hungry and desperate to appease their Queen. And she glared at the Australian who disappeared behind the wooden buildings, and screamed at her blinded Herd a mere moment before they caught up with him.

_"Forget him! Get the Texan! Get the briefcase!"_

And what sheep they were! The Heavy had just enough large caliber bullets to finish off the pathetic freak that dared enter their Queendom. The Russian was so close that he could smell his blood, sweet and coppery. The scent hung in the air like bait. But he still turned; he still lunged forward and ran to the other side. The others followed. Guns were fired, heavy bottles crashed against the buildings until they revealed the sharp ends splashed with old, tasteless liquor. The group searched far and wide before they finally came to an understanding.

They had no idea where the Texan was.

* * *

The battered Medic was half dragged, half carried by the heavy Russian. His feet seemed to glide across the dusty ground like feathers upon ice. It was odd. He was not beaten. He was not tortured into saying all five commandments. He was being… helped. He couldn't hear the havoc outside. The past few months did a number on his senses, his hearing above all. His voice was hoarse, and he did not even bring himself to ask where he was being taken. His lips parted, a sound came out, but this time his voice was not interrupted by a yell or a smack.

"Heavy…" he took a deep breath, his head lulling to the side; "…Ukraine."

His lanky, starving body was hung up in the air. The German even winced, expecting an impact. The Heavy might toss him on the ground; he might kick his teeth out. But instead, the bear-like mercenary slowly lowered him down. The Medic curled up, bringing his knees towards his chin. He shielded his eyes from the blinding white light outside. The rays of steely sunlight danced inside his eyelids.

He felt something cold and metal inside his hand. Bringing himself to open one of his eyes, he noticed something. It was a gun, a fully-loaded gun that he was in no position to use, and above all, a gun much too small for his Russian friend to ever use.

As if he had noticed the look of concern in the Medic's puffy, purplish eye, the Heavy kneeled before him.

"You are in no condition to defend yourself, I know. Use this as desperate measure. Shoot anybody. Anybody who may endanger you. I will come back for you. I may bring your healing gun with me, if I am able to. But please, doctor… stay alive."

Not knowing why the Heavy was suddenly behaving this way, but having absolutely no energy to find out, he only nodded. He hid further behind the old empty barrels, clutching the weapon. He felt its inlays. It reminded him of a Spy's weapon. He shook away the thought and leaned his head against the wooden containers, slowly basking in the howls and screams coming from the Queendom's residents. He felt a strong hand move over a wristwatch that clutched his hand. He did not recall having it there before. But he hadn't had the strength or the voice to ask about it.

Meanwhile, the Heavy had other concerns.

The Dead Ringer prepared for this IT was timing out. It was only a matter of time before-

_"Alert! Alert! Trouble in the IT sector! Oh my, oh my! Danger! Danger, darlings!"_

- she noticed.

* * *

The BLU Sniper was turned around, grabbed by the shoulder. He opened his eyes in shock and soon saw a kukri's tip lunging towards him. His sniper rifle fell in his left hand; he used the right to push the attacker's hand away. He noticed his unfair advantage; both of his arms were fully functional. His rival's left arm hung limply, the right was folded towards him and wielding his fatal blade. His own rifle was strapped to his back. The BLU could only focus on dodging the weapon as long as he possibly could, feeling the quickening in his rival's blood as his ungloved, bony fingers grazed the surface of the RED's wrist.

A fiery rage burned within the wounded Sniper's steely eyes.

It shifted once he was thrown on the ground. The BLU quickly reached into his inventory to grab his own melee weapon. He barely touched the blade when the RED stood, leaning on the palms of his hands. He rose up and gave the BLU a gash across his bristly face. The BLU wiped his bleeding cheek after allowing himself one quick yell of pain. Smelling his own blood, and the blood seeping down the arm of his attacker, his primal instincts went into full throttle. His hand stretched out and slashed across the air.

_Whisk! _

It sounded like a baseball being thrown at rapid speed. The RED stepped back; the point missed his abdomen by the threads of his shirt. The BLU growled, desperately wanting to return him tenfold for that gash he gave him, and now bled across his cheek.

Another slash; that one _did _break the skin.

The RED grabbed his stomach briefly before he was pinned against the wooden wall. A knife was pressed at his Adam's apple. The light that came rushing in through the cracks of the wooden walls blinded him. Even with his head turned back, even with the blotches of white, the man could still imagine the BLU's grimace, vile and victorious. A twitch away from dominating his rival, it had to be.

"Well," the BLU clucked his tongue, glaring at the RED with a look of almost perverse satisfaction; "Looks like yer done here…"

"In your dreams," the man replied, trying to rise up his weapon before the other responded by pressing the side of the bloodied knife against the soft skin under the man's chin. The RED gulped. As he did, the saliva-filled flesh came even closer to the blade, and he even felt the cold sensation, as if somebody was dragging a stretched-out strand of hair across his neck.

"Ya know…" the BLU Sniper began in a hollow tone; "You could stop all this. The Queen _might _be willing to negotiate. You have yer friend bring the briefcase back, and join our little Herd, and-!"

He winced as hot spit flew into his eye. The movement was more because of shock than anything else. The RED wanted him to turn, to expose his weak spot. Sadly, he decided not to give him the satisfaction. He blinked the foamy liquid away and narrowed his eyes at the RED, who's eyes had yet to break contact and were positively burning with determination. The BLU smirked- no, _chuckled _at the rival.

"You shouldn't have done that, ya know? It wasn't polite, was it? Why are you resisting, mate?" He came closer to him, the knife still hanging under the man's chin. His gloved hand was gripping the REDs arm firmly, not allowing it a single twitch.

The RED was practically an inch away from death. Maybe even less. Their foreheads touched. The BLU was practically panting like a dog.

"Drop. Dead," the RED snarled through his gritted teeth. The BLU failed to do so… at first.

"You REDs just can't get enough of us, can ya?" He grinned. "Nah, you gotta come rushin' back and takin' our belongings. Well not this time. I have my duties, my obligations that I need to fulfill, and _no one_…" he looked at the RED for a moment, the rage materialized into thick, choky air in between them. "…_no one… _will get in my fucking way. Not you, not the grease monkey, nobody. And frankly, my pet, I'd like to see you try…"

The side of the sharp blade was pressing down the Sniper's Adam's apple. The BLU licked his lips in anticipation. The RED did nothing. He did not squirm, nor did he call help. He did not even budge when the force made it difficult for him to breathe normally. His eyes still stood still on the man's grimace. If he was to greet death, he would do it like a hero, repent for his sins under the hand of a man of equal strength and redeem himself.

The atmosphere in that moment in time cracked.

_"Alert! Alert! Trouble in the IT sector! Oh my, oh my! Danger! Danger, darlings!"_

The BLU twitched and the RED took that moment to his advantage. His knee made impact with the BLU's stomach. He saw his weapon fall from his hands. At that moment he lunged forward, completely forgetting that he had a weapon of his own, held in his now freed hand. He grabbed the BLU and pushed him towards the wall with such power that the entire construction shook. The BLU broke the wooden wall and fell out of it. As the air was let in, the smell of gunpowder and frag grenades immediately burned the RED's nostrils. He leaned out of the gap in the wall just enough to see the BLU dangling, hanging for his life and clutching a wooden board with one hand.

The BLU tossed and squirmed as the battle raged under him, the battle of the desperate BLUs and a gritty RED. Their gallops and shrieks sounded like a stampede. The BLU Sniper was mortified. His breathing was fast and hard, and he was sweating through his uniform. The RED watched his attacker. Pathetic. Simply pathetic. He rose up his knife while a smile crept like a caterpillar over his unshaved, badly bruised face, covered with splinters and tiny cuts.

He whispered.

_"Long live the Queen."_

The bloodied knife made impact with the BLU's hand; it went through it like it would through a stick of butter. The BLU yelled as the knife was extracted, and lost grip of the board. The RED watched him fall to his death.

Out of the frying pan…

_Fwick…fwick…foosh!_

…and into the God damn barbecue.

Ever seen a forest fire? It's worse when you're the tree.

And for the BLU Pyro, the tree was supposed to be a pathetic little Identified Trespasser. She scowled as she flung her flame thrower, burning down everything she thought was necessary. Even the uninhabited houses. Even her own Queendom. Even the dwelling where the RED stood, watching the havoc outside. The Sniper felt smoke rise. Dense, thick smoke.

He began coughing like his lungs were full of lead. He ran out of the room and downstairs.

A board broke from the ceiling and fell right by his feet. If he was an inch closer…

Jack's laugh echoed in the distance. So did the Queen's cries of displeasure. They rung inside the Sniper's mind, forming a cluster of fear, pain and crackling fire. It engulfed the room into a large fireball, hot and heavy. The Sniper stormed out, turning and pushing aside every table, chair, everything that stood in his way. A small, leathery thing fell in his grip. He did not recognize it in a blinding fury of red and orange, but he grabbed it as he ran across the room. His footsteps did not echo, and the fumes and kerosene inhaled made him think that he was floating. He heard voices.

_"I said you smell like breakfast! I couldn't figure it out before, but now I did!"_

_"A damn good one. My nana taught me."_

_"Darlings, darlings!"_

_"BURN THEM! BURN THEM!"_

_"Does it get easier…?"_

_"Emily would never do that… but I did."_

_"You smiled… sugar."_

He flung the rectangular object through the walls and they immediately crumbled behind him. He ran breathless, tears running down his eyes as smoke pinched them. His hand was grabbed. He was being dragged away. The only thing that kept him from attacking was the flash of red fabric.

The Engineer held onto the briefcase like it was the sole thing that could ever guide them out of this hellhole. In a way, it was. His heart was beating when they approached the van. Gunshots were fired at it.

_Do it for her._

_Just do it, whatever it takes!_

The Engineer hopped inside the vehicle, putting the briefcase aside and fastening his seatbelt. The doors closed loudly and in unison. Trying to keep his breath steady, the Engineer turned to the marksman, pressing down the gas pedal.

"Hope you had fun while they chased me…"

"Shut up and brace yourself!"

The tires screeched loudly, sparks practically flew from behind the tepid wheels that were spinning and becoming hot as iron, ready to be struck. Both men fell deep into their seats as the vehicle gained some speed. They swiveled and swerved across the dusty plain, bombs and grenades were fired at them.

The BLU Demoman shot one awfully close to them. The blast went off in a gush of smoke and red, the van leaned to the side before landing on all four wheels again. The Texan was practically shot out of the van, through the top.

"Can't this damn thing go any faster?!"

"Oh, you wanna drive?!" The Sniper responded before recoiling and facing the dusty road again. It was quite difficult to drive with one hand. He really didn't need a busybody in the passenger's seat. More grenades. Second, third… a sharp turn to the right. That one almost hit a building.

"You _trying_ to get us killed?!"

"Believe me, if I was trying, this would not be the-!"

The two fell silent once they heard a slam across the metal of the van. It was blunt. It was not of a bullet's burst or a grenade fragment. The Sniper's ears perked up.

"Did-…didja hear something?"

"I guess you heard it, too…" The Engineer replied, looking into the distance with glassy eyes. Another hit. They were still driving, but the smacks were coming closer. And if they had bothered to look behind them, they would have seen an unmistakable blade of an axe. It rose up and struck the top of the vehicle. They heard a noise, but saw nothing.

Nothing until Jack climbed down and yelled at the two from the side of the van, holding onto the rearview mirror. Her eyes were red like blood, her teeth were sharp as razors, and the possibility of this insane Pyro possessing their souls was highly debatable, but not at all impossible. They screamed. Jack ran her claw-like fingers into Sniper's neck. He began choking; the vehicle swiveled sharply and uncontrollably.

"Nobody leaves the Queendom!" She shrieked in her now high-pitched voice, holding onto the edge of the van. "Nobody!"

The vigor and spirit was draining from the Sniper's eyes. He gasped.

"Engie!"

In a rush of anger, the Texan took the rusty wrench in his hand and struck Jack on the head with it. It seemed to shake her concentration, but not her grip. She hissed in pain.

"Get offa him you miscreation!"

"Engie!" The Sniper repeated, steering the wheel to the side and desperately trying to shake the freak off. The Texan leaned to the side and was thrown to the centre once the van regained its balance.

"What?!"

"Take the wheel!"

"Take the-?!"

"DID I STUTTER, TAKE THE FUCKING WHEEL!"

The Texan leaned to the side and gripped the helm firmly. The Sniper freed his arms and used it to pry the Pyro off his frame. She was still livid, still foaming at the mouth. Dust flew in through the window.

"Nobody leaves us!"

The Sniper reached and grabbed the large rectangular container. He maneuvered it over the Engineer's body and looked at the Pyro, who was now clutching his shirt.

"Here's to all yer -ungh- freaks in hell!" He grunted before he hit her over the head with it. She hissed and lost her grip of the vehicle. She tumbled down… and so did the briefcase.

"No!" The Engineer yelled out, preparing to steer back. The Sniper pushed his face away and grabbed the control just as he watched the Pyro slowly rising up from the dirt she was thrown in, shaking her fist at them unable to chase after the two runaways. The briefcase was lying beside her, dented. It was becoming smaller and smaller by each rushed mile. Jack's axe stayed on the surface before it began rattling and fell off the van.

The Engineer watched it fall and disappear behind them, suddenly turning to the Sniper.

"You… idiot! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!"

"Calm down!" He commanded, looking at the road ahead. The Engineer refused to be silenced.

"Calm down?! No! Don't you fucking tell me to calm down! You lost it! I had it, right here, in my arms, and then you lost it!"

"Don't - !"

"Don't what?! Don't what?! That was the only medicine available for the next… thousand miles, a-a-and then you came in here and threw it away! I hope you're proud of yourself, you useless sack of crap! And now Sarah is there, waiting for me to come home, and I'll have to say 'Oh, sorry baby, Daddy couldn't help because uncle Snipes is a **fucking moron who can't even fight a single Pyro**!',and she'll just sit there and hate me!"

"It wasn't - !"

"I - I - I can't even begin to comprehend this!" He said, flinging up his arms in frustration. "We had it. And now we don't! And it's all your fault you pedophile! You freak! What, fucking over one of my daughters wasn't enough for ya?!"

"It was a fake!" The Sniper said, trying to create some much needed silence. The Engineer watched him, first with a bewildered expression, then with a look of skepticism.

"A… a what?" He asked, and as he responded, the Sniper went into his reserved yet irritated gear. He spoke quickly, but did not raise his tone.

"A fake, mate! Ya know what a fake is? A replica, a mock, an imitation, a bloody fake, for fuck's sake!"

He sighed and felt his body sink into the chair. His neck was throbbing. He closed the window. Slowly, the Engineer looked at the back of the van. There it was; the briefcase. The blue container striped with a strip of white, a small plate filled with buttons and lock combinations. His jaw dropped.

"But… but how?"

"I threw _a _briefcase, some old thing I found while you were holding that one," he explained, ticking his head towards it. "I bet it's a standard suitcase that just matched the color. Maybe it'll fool 'em, but I'm not sure. I just needed something blunt to knock a few things down… or out."

The tinkerer watched the man in complete silence. Slowly, the Sniper exhaled through his mouth.

"Look. I gave you a promise. I wouldn't let anything happen to yer daughter. I may be a freak, but I'm a man of my word."

The Texan's eyes shifted slowly towards the deserted field they were driving across. He contemplated a couple of things with bated breath as the Sniper eagerly awaited his response.

"Mate… I know this is hard for you. I know that nothing I do can ever remedy what I've done, but for all it's worth…"

"She'll be okay," the Engineer said in a hollow tone, just a speck of hope in his voice. He looked up towards the white sky just when his voice cracked, and his eye emitted a tear that streamed down his jaw.

"My baby's gonna be okay."

He remained in that position for a while. The marksman watched and couldn't help but to form a smile, even though his arm had went numb and every bone in his body ached. He looked ahead.

Was that the sun peering in the distance? It was too early to tell.

* * *

The fire was beginning to settle as the BLUs counted their losses. One building burnt to the grown. The REDs fled. A briefcase was missing, and so was the Medic. Even the Pyro was somewhere, outside of the Queendom, but she would return quite soon. The Queen watched the men from the centre of town, from the largest flat screen behind the statue of her. The statue, made out of scrap metal and weapons that were taken apart, was smiling at them. The Queen, made out of color, sound and pixels, was not. She spoke to her Herd.

_"I am very,_ very _disappointed at you, darlings. Not only did you let them escape, but you lost the Scout and the Sniper in the process. Poor dear… oh, well," _she continued in a suddenly perky tone, being a dilly dolly she was; _"Today wasn't a complete loss. I have managed to locate the man who released our IT. And I have to say, I am very disappointed at him…"_

The group chattered amongst themselves, trying to identify the criminal. Such a deed mustn't go unpunished, they knew this. They knew it well. They wondered who would be the one to end the pathetic creature's life.

Dominic glared at the screen. The Queen spoke the man's name in a formal tone, like she was telling him that he was awaiting company.

_"Heavy."_

The group turned to the obese Russian, who looked at the screen in puzzlement. He had not done the deed, but the Queen said that he did. The Queen was always right, and there were no witnesses to prove her otherwise. Therefore, the Queen must have been correct. And who was he to defy her?

Slowly, he approached the screen. The Queen smiled sweetly.

_"Punishment where punishment is due."_

Dominic rushed towards her, pushing through the barricade formed by the Soldier and Engineer. He huffed and yelped at her image, trying to cause a distraction.

_"Le système est vicié!"_

_"Why, thank you, Delacroix," _she responded. She loved being praised for her greatness, even in a language that she was not acquainted with. Still, she wondered what exactly his praise was concerning. But no time for that, oh no, no, no. It was time for the public execution!

Being a good Herd member, one needed to know how to punish himself. The Medic was not a good Herd member, so somebody else was there to cut him. His face looked so much brighter without those pesky cheeks. The Russian walked over to the statue and picked the sharpest chunk of metal.

_"Careful now, let's not make the structure fall apart!" _The Queen said, fearing that her statue would be ruined if she kept on this tradition of letting the man finish themselves off with chunks of her cold, scavenged flesh. The Heavy watched the blade, only slightly rusted. If he put up a fight, he would be killed by somebody else. This was for the best.

A hiss of blood squirted from the man's neck as he struck the small, sunken area. It went in beautifully; only halfway in, and the man was already losing consciousness, waddling from side to side. His crimson blood fell on the ground, his footprints made deep imprints. The Queen placed her hand on her chest and chuckled. The Survivors did the same.

The Heavy moved from side to side, managing to break his skin a couple of inches more. His hand was becoming soaked; the liquid covered it almost completely. He breathed heavily, but he had to finish off his own execution, as a valued member of the Herd should. No screaming, no crying, no resisiting. He fell on his knees and the earth shook as his mass struck it. With his last ounce of strength, he twisted the makeshift blade deeper inside his wound.

He fell face first into the ground. Still alive, still breathing, but at that point, nobody cared.

_"A wonderful display."_

The Survivors clapped.

A growl came from behind the group as the Pyro came in the small Hooverville. She was covered with grime and soot, her axe was being dragged behind her and leaving small abrasions in the ground. The Queen nodded at her.

_"Jackie, you came! Ah, don't worry, I will not punish you for leaving the grounds, but I might if you keep sporting that grumpy old face," _she giggled.

But the Pyro did not care about the Queen (!), she did not care about the crowd's furious looks (!), she only cared about speaking to the Spy once more (?).

"You… you did this."

The crowd fell silent and took a step back; allowing Dominic to give an explanation that was due. Even the Queen was silent, awaiting his words that came slowly. Each one of them was void, emotionless.

"A long time ago, Jack, I made a promise. I made a promise to a friend that I would never let a child die in vain. And I did not. I refuse to stand idly by and let other Survivors die, just because they aren't in our pitiful home."

"You sabotaged us." Jack raised her axe. "You ruined the Queendom!"

"The Queendom was already ruined!" The Spy bellowed, spitting rage. "What are we? A group of angry, starving men who follow a glitch, a flawed computer program! She is nothing but a pretty picture!"

"How dare you?! The Queen is glorious! The Queen is great!"

"The Queen is a lie!" He barked at her, and the statement was carried through the hot air. Even the Queen coyly pressed her fingers against her lips, and the other Survivors watched with a look of horror. Still, the proud Frenchman continued;

"We couldn't take on two REDs! Two! It's embarrassing, that's what it is! With Helen, we had guidance; with Helen we had a chance! Friends, colleagues, degenerates, open your eyes and see the failure that you've become!" He yelled out, pointing at his companions.

Jack's scream became a cluster of emotions, it filled the base and it made the entire dystrophic town shake. She rushed towards him, her axe high up, ready to wail on his head. She made her way towards him, blood thumping in her head. He did not move an inch.

A gunshot.

The Pyro fell flat on her face; scarlet blood flew from the side of her head. The Queen watched the body with her lovely lips parted. She then saw an unusual sight; the IT materializing out of thin air. He held out a familiar weapon; the small snub-nosed revolver that went by the name of the Enforcer, whilst they were in the Team Fortress circle. Nobody had ever seen a Medic use it. The man stood, his arm out, breathing heavily. There was no mercy in his eyes.

_"Oh…my…"_

Suddenly the Medic's eyes rolled back and he fell on the ground, clutching his wounded, beaten body. His breaths became rapid and forced, but he did not seem to receive any precious oxygen. His cheeks were becoming a rather unpleasant shade of purple. Dominic watched this poor man, unbelievably angry at the Queen and her Herd for dismantling this man's Medi Gun just so that they could use it to create her Majesty's statue. The Spy watched the man with a heavy heart, though he showed no concern.

It was just… this is what she looked like. Struggling to live, beaten by life, held only by a speck of hope. Ukraine in his case, a small child in her.

Dominic rushed to him. He almost made it to the Pyro's bleeding body when he was stopped by the Engineer's shotgun.

"You ain't goin' nowhere, you filthy traitor!"

"If I don't tend to him, he might die!"

"If you take another step," the Engineer warned through a growl; "he _will _die."

The Soldier and the Demoman stepped behind the Engineer, blocking the Spy's view of the panting, wheezing Medic. Slowly, the Spy reached his hand into his jacket, noticing that their gaze was locked on his hand.

"If it is so easy to kill him, why did we even bother keeping him alive?"

He took out his hand, but instead of a gun, the man held out a small, golden ring. Ignoring the confused looks he was receiving, he kneeled by the deceased Pyro. He took the ring up, showing it to the heavens, showing it to the Queen, showing it to all the dead.

"A token of a saint, so that your soul will not rot and fester in the fiery pits of hell!" He proclaimed loudly, placing the ring inside the hollow of Jack's mouth. He lowered his head down and his voice dropped to a whisper.

"Something tells me you would _enjoy_ the fire, Jack. I can't let that happen."

He took out the silver lighter the woman confiscated from him. He flicked it on and approached the statue of the Queen.

_"Delacroix? Delacroix, darling? Wh-what are you doing, darling? P-put down that lighter. Dominic! Put it down! You aren't well, darling! It's alright! All you need is a bit of reeducation, that's all! Nothing a beating wouldn't fix… Dominic! D-darlings, stop him!"_

But the sheep of hers were too stunned by the sight of defying orders. The metal structure did not burn, the Queen could not be destroyed. But the base… the poorly-built, wooden base burnt nicely. The Queendom shall not stand. With a flick of the lighter, the man set fire to the icon.

First crackle, the Queen. Second crackle, the Queendom. Third crackle, Marseilles. Fourth crackle, the child. First, Queen, second, Queendom, third, Marseilles, fourth, the child. First, the Queendom, second, the Queen. The Queen, the Herd, the Five Commandments, sheep, sheep, lambs to slaughter, Icarus and the sun. Second, fourth, fifth, Queendom, the child, the Infected. Here's a little riddle to guess if you can; who here was an Infected, and who here was the man? Virus, lies, Emily Payne, crackle, crackle, rain. Lorraine, the blade, a promise made. A sting, a ring, a foolish thing, a prayer across the summer sky, do what you want, but let me die. First, second, third, watch it burn.

_Do what you want._

_Just do it for her._

The structure fell to ashes.

_"Darlings, do something!"_

So did Dominic's sanity.

His thoughts lay in disarray. He took out his Ambassador and shot the buzzing screen. A spider web spread across the screen, the Queendom was engulfed in silence. Long live the Queen, the Queen was dead. He turned to his colleagues.

"I stood idly by during this pointless, needless battle. My gun is still loaded; firing a single shot at those two wouldn't have made a difference. And why? They still had heart. They still had heart. And soul! And hope for this wretched world that lied outside the borders of the Queendom. Yet you choose to listen to that dictator, a glitch in the system. You are powerless. You are nothing here! And what do you do to the people who try to inform you of that? You kill them. You destroy them! Well, here I am, telling you now. The Queen isn't here, on this screen. You are free to think for yourselves!"

"Shut up you frog or I swear, you'll be digging yer grave with yer teeth!" The Demoman bellowed, clutching his empty bottle of Scrumpy. The Spy wasn't shaken nor stirred by this warning.

"If you do not believe me, if you still think you are safe here, if you still think that the three of you could fight off all dangers when the nine of us could not, you have my permission to stay here and keep the IT. If there is a grain of sanity in those thick, plebeian skulls of yours, you will join me and travel to our new home; the one the IT speaks of. Fight me or join me. You have options now. Congratulations."

He folded his arms over his chest. The Medic raised his head from the surface of the ground.

"If you want to kill me…" Dominic smacked his chest once; "go ahead and kill me!"

The fight began and ended in two minutes. The dead man's blood ran through the ground and around the burning statue. The three Survivors and a shivering IT were left on their own.

All this for a briefcase filled with sugar pills.


	26. The Bitch

**A/N: **Today has been a shit week. This reflected on my writing.

* * *

The girl shifted across the sweat-drenched sheets. She clutched her stomach once again and let out a low whine. Her knees curled up to her torso and her body shivered.

Sarah hated being sick. She absolutely hated the inability to move, to speak, to think normally. She hated the look of sympathy her mother would flash her whenever she came to visit, holding a cup of hot tea that she would then leave on the cupboard. The aforementioned cup was now cooling, the thin smoke wisps rose into the gaps in the ceiling. She couldn't even reach her hand out to take the hot porcelain and consume the liquid. Eating or drinking anything was a nightmare. The girl craved food, sweets and various cakes, but actually thinking about eating would make her ill. The stench coming from the bucket strategically placed under her bed was not helping her situation. The hot, viscous, greenish contents were emptied out, but the foul smell was coming from the crusted vomit on the ridges.

Her intestines curled, Sarah pressed down her stomach. She would need the bucket again quite soon, she thought as the greasy, wheat-colored hair fell over her ghastly face in lifeless strands.

Irene stood by her, wringing her hands. Unable to help, unwilling to speak for fear of breaking in tears. She watched with narrowed eyes as her daughter pulled over a blanket and managed to force her gaze upwards.

"Mom, I'm cold…" she spoke through quivering lips. Irene gingerly moved towards her, stroking away a tangled, greasy lock off her daughter's forehead, speckled and moist. The hairs were tucked behind the girl's ear.

"It's alright, Sarah," Irene began in a soothing voice; "Daddy's gonna come back real quick. He'll get the antibiotics, and you'll be all better and up on your fee-"

"Where's Sniper?" The girl asked, curling herself up deeper into the blanket that could have been made out of tissue paper. Her soft, Bambi-like eyes gave out nothing but pure, childish worry. They followed her mother's stiff mouth that was beginning to form a thin line. The girl never received her answer.

"Keep warm and drink your tee," Irene said. Her voice was softer, somehow. She was in no position to be mad at the man. Too much time had passed already, and there were other things to worry about. Her daughter was still shivering under the covers. In a way, Irene was glad that the girl was not eating; otherwise she would have noticed the food shortage. The crops were taken away by the merciless hand of winter creeping. They needed supplies, and they needed them quickly. The days, weeks, months that they would be able to spend here were ticking away. She could almost hear them inside her head, like a clock at a watchmakers', shrouded in cotton and a decorative cardboard case. It was muted, but it was still there. A beating of the telltale heart.

The thumping made her head ache to the point where she had to rub her temples that pulsed under the weight of her calloused fingers. Her daughter was still shivering inches away from her.

"I miss Sniper…" Sarah whined. Irene pulled a strange grimace, unhappy about her daughter still caring for the man, but unable to be angry at him. He _was _the one who left with her husband to aid him in his search for medication. Could a monster have a heart? Was he really a monster at all? She briefly looked to the side when she heard the sickening sounds of her daughter, vomiting into the container under her bed.

The mother flinched with every wave of nausea, not because she wasn't accustomed to it, but because she felt so incredibly bad.

The girl finally lifted up her head, pale in the face and dirty around the mouth. She didn't even bother to wipe her lip before plummeting down to her pillow, stuffed with goose down. The sharp feathers were sticking out, but she had no strength to pick at them. Her chest rose and fell incredibly slowly, like the surface of the sea on a windless night. A groan was released from her. It sounded like the wail of Death itself.

"Sniper has my book," the phrase was uttered quickly. Irene's ears perked up as she leaned forward.

"Sorry?"

"Sniper has my book," Sarah repeated through a croaky voice. "I think it's on the roof."

"Go to sleep, Sarah," Irene said, placing her hand on Sarah's hot forehead. The beads of sweat stuck like balls of glue on the woman's hand. It was slowly being roasted on the feverish flesh.

"I miss my book. I wanna read it, but I can't. It's all fuzzy. Everything."

Her body stayed stretched-out on the messy, sweat-drenched sheets. Suddenly, the girl felt something other than pain and misery. She felt annoyance. She smacked her mother's hand away and rolled over to the side. Irene snatched her hand back and held it close to her boson. Her eyes were fixed on her daughter's frame, and about a blink away from letting go of a tear.

"Don't look at me," the girl said in a weak yet strict voice, pulling the covers over her head. The mother waited for a mere moment, wanting Sarah to say another word, any word at all! But the girl stayed in her little sheet cocoon, that was slowly rising and falling as she fell into a state of slumber. It would not be blissful. Whenever she managed to fall asleep, nightmares would haunt her. Odd, terrifying things of old, skeleton-like women, burning tool sheds and thunderous nights. But her physical need for sleep far outweighed her need for comfort, and she ended up sleeping through her mother's visit.

The woman stood up from the bed and made her way across the room. The dusty floorboards creaked under her boots, covered in mud and soot after a long day of trying to salvage something out of that miserable excuse for a garden. The track covered the floor in thick, brown blobs. At least that's how Irene saw them. Her hand grasped the round knob, and it twisted to the side. Still watching her girl, Irene stepped out of the room. The sheets were still rising and falling, but slower, somehow.

And at times, not at all.

The door closed with a groan.

* * *

He needed a cigarette.

The Spy was sitting there, on the couch, in the middle of the living room, staring at the television set. Nothing was playing yet, but for some reason, the entertainment channel was still working. It still played a movie every night for some reason. They possibly had the program planned a couple of months ahead. It was their security; the men working at the station were surely dead already, yet their channel worked. And why? To occupy the minds of the daft Survivors. That singer? Dead. That actress? Dead. All the producers whose names were rolling over the screen during the closing credits were dead. It disgusted the Spy. He flicked the television set off. How dare they? How dare they lie to people? But then again, maybe this was a way for the Survivors to keep the remaining specks of their hope. He could appreciate that to an extent, until he pondered about the fact that the program would end quite soon. All the Survivors would be left with would be a blank screen. Or constantly emitting static, like the news channel. No new news. No reporters to give them to the public, no people left to make them. And the last news he had received were… were… oh God.

He really needed a cigarette.

Tugging at the fabric of his balaclava, now suddenly hot and scratchy, he only wished for his comrades to return from their journey. Maybe then this anxiety would end. Maybe then, they could go back to living their life. Maybe…

Maybe.

He really needed a fucking cigarette.

He'd smoke it for her, if nothing else.

The lady of the house slowly crept down the stairs, her footsteps heavy and hollow against the floorboards. The Spy did not even bother to look at her, but he already knew that she was pale, bloated and miserable. She was like that most of the time, ever since her daughter had fallen ill. A sigh escaped her as she sat down by the masked assassin, crossing the palms of her hands over her knees and bowing her head down. The prickly blond hairs were sticking up across the back of her exposed neck. She could have used a smoke as well. But what was the point? They ran out months ago.

"How is she?" The Spy asked without averting his gaze away from the screen. Irene rubbed her forehead.

"Bad. But she's… she's holding on. She'll get better, I know it."

"I hope she will," the Spy said in an odd tone of fondness and concern. The woman ran her head into the sweaty palms of her hands. She allowed herself once sob before sliding her fingers down her greasy face, looking up into the ceiling. The hands were then flung to each side with a sigh.

"I…" she began softly; "I don't know what to do anymore. There is nothing for me to do anymore. I try to keep hoping but…"

The Frenchman slowly looked towards her, and just then his icy-blue eyes met her hazel orbs, filling with small, salty droplets that irritated the surface of her eyes, making them red.

"It's… it's just so hard, ya know?"

The man looked at her briefly. Only half-aware of what he was doing, he stretched out his arms and folded them over her back. Her arms were still clutched against her bosom, and her elbows soon touched the surface of his abdomen. There her body laid, shaking and accepting every caress that flew over her arched back.

And all of a sudden, all the troubles and woes slowly seeped away. They were taken away by the touch of his hands and his warm embrace. Her head lulled down to his shoulder and she released a sigh. It was not a sigh of exhaustion, but a sigh of longing. Her arms freed themselves and began making their way over the man's back. This went on for a short while, and suddenly his strokes stopped. He remained quiet, noticing that the woman was starting to bury her nose into his neck.

"Alright, Irene," he began, knowing that she was beginning to get a little too friendly with this clinch. The woman did not move away.

"Just - just lemme stay a while," she murmured into his neck. Her own enfold was becoming harder, more aggressive. Her lips bade soft movements across the surface of the man's neck. Those could not be defined as kisses yet, but they were getting close.

"Irene, stop it," he commanded through his teeth. The woman paid no mind to him and continued to entertain herself, curling her fingers around his arm.

"Just gimme a sec, relax," she cooed. These small pleas of hers were becoming a mantra that she repeated after every quick peck. Those small movements were slowly rising up from his neck and onto his jaw line. The man stretched out his neck like a crane, trying to buy himself some time.

"Just a sec," she insisted after another kiss; "Just a sec…"

"Irene, that's enough!"

"Just a little longer," she mewled. Her breath was hot and unsteady; the man could feel it on his lips. He tried resisting her, slowly moving out of her way, but she responded by coming closer, enwrapping him in her arms. And at that moment, their lips touched.

A moment later, her cheek was hot and pulsating.

"I said that's enough!" He bellowed, striking her with the centre of his palm. The force of impact made her tumble off the sofa. She cried loudly and then whimpered as she stood up. Her cheek was hot under her bruised hand. With tears in her eyes, she begged for explanation. The man stood up, his fists clenched and almost shaking with impatience. His teeth were showing and grating in frustration. His chest rose and fell slowly, forbidding him to make a sound. The woman was terrified.

Suddenly, his hands fell only to be raised up and clasp the sides of his head. His sentence was uttered without a hint of remorsefulness, lacking any sign of pity towards the woman he had stricken.

"What were you thinking?!" He shouted at her, quickly lowering his hands. The woman's heart was beating loudly; she had no trouble believeing that the man could hear it himself.

"I…" she began, lowering her hand down to her chest; "I… I though you… I thought we…"

"What, Irene, what?!" He asked, stretching out his arms. The woman cowered before him.

"I thought we… I thought we could… I'm sorry, but-!"

"Sorry?! You have every right to be sorry! You have to be sorry for your poor husband! You have to be sorry for your sick daughter! Apologize to them, not me!" He said, taking a single step forward. The woman was shocked by his outburst.

"I'm sorry! I don't… I didn't-!"

"You didn't what, Irene? Think? You didn't think? So you just reacted on impulse, I suppose."

"Well," she wrung her hands, moving her head away in shame. "Well, yes, I -"

"So that's your instinct, then? If your husband is gone, you just go ahead and try to fuck the first man you can get your clammy hands on?!"

"No!" She shouted, standing up on her feet. Her face was still sore, and after the fall, so was her knee. "No, it's not like that at all!"

"Then what _is_ it like, Irene?!"

"I -…" she said to no one in particular before she finally moved her head up. "I don't know. I don't know yet, alright? I don't know what happened!" She shook her head, trying to end the raging argument. The Spy was not impressed.

"Your husband is out there, looking for medication for your sick daughter. He has been gone for a little under three hours, and you react by throwing yourself into my arms? And you don't know why?! Well that's quite mature of you…"

"Shut up!" Irene screamed. "Shut up! I made a mistake, it happens!"

"Yes, Irene, mistakes happen. You trip and break something. You forget to shoot an Infected in the head and end up wasting a bullet. You overcook something. What you tried to do was no mistake!"

"Oh, don't you dare preach to me!" She said through gritted teeth, pointing at him. "Don't you dare tell me I wronged. Yes! Yes I did do wrong! I am a human being, I'm allowed to sin!"

"You are a married woman! What, the vows and the wedding ring lose all meaning once your husband is out of the house?!"

"They never lost meaning!"

"So what happened just now?!"

"It was a kiss!" She cried, stretching her arms out into the empty air above her. "It was a kiss! Nothing happened!"

"Nothing? So what does it take for it to be _something_?"

"More than this, I reckon!" She said to him flatly; "Like you know anything about fidelity!"

"I happen to know plenty," he responded in a matter-of-fact tone. The woman grunted, rolling her eyes.

"Oh really? What, there's a hooker who gives you a frequent customer discount?"

The Frenchman watched her with narrowed eyes, completely disgusted by her and all she represented. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a sigh escaped his lips. She tapped her foot against the floor.

"Well?!" She repeated the question.

He slowly raised his eyes. He saw only a blob of distrust and grime, standing in front of him. He did not remember why he even bothered with her, why he even respected her. Why did he ever think that the woman was worthy of his time? Slowly, he said but one word.

"Winifred."

Her hands were swaying by her hips. With a quirk of her eyebrow, she approached him. He was no longer breathing as heavily, he almost seemed approachable. Almost. She still kept her distance.

"Who's Winifred?"

The man looked in her direction, but not at her. His eyes were glazed with a silvery film.

"She was my everything. My love, my light, the reason of my existence. I gave everything to her, and she returned me just as much." Slowly he walked back to the couch and fell in it. Irene still stood where she did, only slightly leaning towards him. His words were blank, not at all fond. If he had any emotion towards the subject, he was blocking it from being shown.

"When the New Plague started, I made a pact with the Administrator. I knew we were to be placed in a safe location. She never told anybody, but there was one civilian allowed with us. Of course, I kept this secret to myself. I wanted to wait until all the others were done calling their loved ones. Then I would ask for Winifred to be sent with us. I had a plan. Me and my Winnie, survivors. But I did not count on the Texan taking a chance and asking her himself." He turned his head away and a void chuckle escaped him. Irene then knew. She was not wanted here. Not at all. Even the Spy wanted her gone, hated her for occupying space. She swallowed the heavy node in her throat.

"…I was five minutes too late," he finished, looking into the distance. "I never even managed to say a proper goodbye. The last thing I heard was that the Infected were attacking Boston. I saw the footage they managed to show. Children crying, the Infected running amok, grown men taken by them, torn limb from limb…"

He suddenly stopped talking and rushed his head into his palms. He breathed in heavily and looked up. Irene was now sitting beside him. He did not want her there. His nerves were starting to shatter.

The bitch spoke.

"I'm… I'm sorry. And you -… you were still…"

"Faithful? Yes, yes I was. I promised my heart to somebody. I would not be so easily tempted." One more look of disgust pointed towards her. It felt like a blade to the windpipe.

"But then… you told me I was valuable. You told me I was worth something! Why would you…?"

"I felt sorry for you!" He snapped, looking up. "You were not wanted here! You never were! You were a burden, deadweight, a nothing! Do you know how much you were ridiculed? The only man standing up for you was your husband, and this is how you repay him?!"

Irene moved her hand towards her lips, on the verge of crying. The man impatiently looked around and pinched some air in between his thumb and index finger. He squinted at it.

"I had a _little _respect for you. I thought, if you fought well, if you did your chores, you would be a valuable member! But you weren't! Dell protected you, and you imagined that you had an input in this team! You did not! You had no right to shoo out the Sniper, you had no right to shoo out the Medic, your family does not control the unit! It shouldn't! And you shouldn't act like the fucking queen around here! You are an awful woman! An awful fighter, an abysmal mother!"

Irene's jaw dropped. Suddenly the wood-paved room seemed to crumble around her. Her voice held back, like the words were being choked out of her.

"How… dare you?" Slowly she stood up and began protesting. Her voice felt like a razor against an earlobe. "You have no idea how hard I worked! You have no idea how hard I struggle every day! Ad don't you dare tell me that I'm a bad mother!"

"Not bad, Irene," the Spy stood; "Abysmal! Your child is sick in her room, and you're too busy trying to clean the dirt off your good name after-!"

He wanted to accuse her of adultery. Sadly, he knew that it would not hurt her as much. Slowly he placed his arms over his chest, crossing them. He cleared his throat.

"I shouldn't be surprised that you're a whore," he began. "After all, your daughter is. The apple does not fall far…"

"How dare you bring Pepper up?!" She shrieked. The roof seemed to shake with the tremble of her voice. "This subject has nothing - !"

"Nothing to do with her?" Adrien guessed with a grin. "Really? You honestly think that this subject has nothing to do with her? You seemed quite irritated once you found out about her and Mundy…"

"That is different!" She insisted. "We are two consensual adults, she was a child!"

The man awaited her to make another remark. It did not really matter, since most of what she was saying was now coming out as a cluster of nonsense, plain white noise. But her lips stopped moving once they formed a frown, and the emissary simply shook his head.

"You were not as comfortable with the subject of two people…"

"That's different!" She cried.

"And how so? Because of the age difference? I suppose cheating on your husband is appropriate and wonderful as long as you're above the age of thirty. Is that your logic, Irene? Nothing you ever do is wrong and it's always about somebody else?"

The woman's fists tightened, but no sound could come out of her. Her heart was racing, thumping in her head. Her blood quickened and she withheld the urge to strike the man with all her might. But it would not be worth it, she reminded herself. This was just the tip of the iceberg. The man, meanwhile, huffed and approached her.

"You know," he began through a sigh of irritation; "I know your type. You claim to be supportive of your child, of your family, but as soon as there's a small bump in the road, off you go, sobbing and running into somebody's arms, seeking consolation. If you had as much say in these affairs as you think you do, this group would be in shambles. As would your family," he said with a scowl. The woman inched her head to the side, not wanting to receive the message. The man had to respect her, he had to! She had no idea where this was coming from. But the biggest shock was yet to come.

"I knew about the two of them," the Spy said, and immediately Irene craned her head towards him, her eyes opened as wide as those of a ewe before slaughter. "I knew about them. I even knew about the tape. Silly girl recorded the rendezvous, could you imagine? Now, I know it couldn't have been right for a mother to see that awful sight, but if you still had it in possession, you would have disowned your daughter. Not to mention my colleague would be in a bit of a snafu. I had to do what needed to be done."

And suddenly it all came together. Irene watched him in outrage.

"You… you stole it." She took a step forward, having trouble keeping her breath bated. Her eyes were now cold; the tears froze over in a cold wave of fury. "You stole it and left me thinking I was insane!"

"As I should. My friend did not need a scandal and the girl did not need to be an outcast from her own family simply because she had the same promiscuous disposition as her own mother."

The woman opened her mouth to speak. Yet nothing came out but a small whimper. She buried her face into her hands, hot tears finally setting themselves free. Her back arched towards him and she continued to sob. It came suddenly. The man was slightly taken aback and moved an inch away from her when she delivered her sobs. And it was somehow familiar; those sobs and cries of pain and distress.

When her head was raised above the surface of her moist palms, she swallowed some hot spit and spoke in a jittery cry.

"I loved you," she said through a whisper. She sniffed and looked at his disgusted visage. "I loved you. Ever since I first saw you, my heart skipped a beat and I… I was so confused! B-but… a-at first I thought it was nothing. Just a passing feeling, like a heat wave. But I was wrong! You comforted me when my own husband did not, you told me not to give up, and you did all those things! You can't possibly say that you hate me, not now!" She begged.

"Yes. Yes, I did comfort you, for reasons I explained earlier. But there was nothing else to it! I wanted to keep the group strong, I could not watch it fall apart any further! Our numbers are decreasing and frankly, I gladly suffered through you because I thought I was benefiting the group!"

"Don't act like you don't care! You love me!" She exclaimed, her voice weakened by the yell. "You have to love me!"

"Irene, listen to me for one fucking second! I never loved you! I never cared for you in such a way! It would not be appropriate! I could not torment the other Survivors like that! There was no reason, there was no time, there was no logic! And finally, there were priorities; there were obligations, the need for survival, if nothing else! I could not let this descend into one of your bad soap-operas! I could not let that happen! There is no place for love in a war, Lorraine, and I - !"

He had more to say. He honestly did. But for a second he stood silent, his eyes fell dead. His index finger was stretched out towards her, slightly craned upwards. The little Freudian slip caught his attention, and the woman's as well. She swallowed, and as she did, the node on the front of her neck bobbed.

"Who's…" she asked, twirling a lock of her hair in the palm of her hand; "Who's Lorraine?"

She watched him descend back into the dusty couch, staring blankly into the pitch black television screen. There was no light in his bright blue eyes. There was no vigor in his expression. They were alone in the world, it seemed, and fully aware of it. The woman slowly kneeled by him. She looked at the palm of his hand, resting on his thigh. He paid no attention to her, the slip occupying most of his attention.

She spoke softly, with an odd air of fondness.

"I am not doing this for some sick recreation, Adrien. I am not doing this to get back at my husband. It's been…" she wiped off a tear dangling from her tear duct, "It's been so hard lately. My daughter is sick, my other daughter is missing, dead if she's lucky… my husband is one, my life fell apart so long ago, and I'm trying to hold onto that promise but… I have nothing to live for."

Slowly her hand crept up to the man's knee, and he was forced to look at her. His expression was still blank and incredibly dark. It made her shiver.

"Y-you understand? I… I just needed something to live for. Something to take my mind off the horror… I really love you, you know?"

After a brief moment of silence, the man responded. His voice was hollow and cold, like a winter night's breeze. After that, he stood up, leaving the woman alone and broken.

"Do me a favor. Leave your schoolgirl affections aside and help your child. She's the one who needs your attention. And frankly Irene, you repel me."

He stood up and walked. He could have been in the same room, for all she cared. Darkness covered her eyes, and suddenly she could say with all certainty that she was worthless, meaningless, unworthy of being alive. Cast away by so many already… it made her heart ache. Her pains were coming, streaming up, into a whirlpool of death and punishment. That whirlpool helped her up, into the kitchen, into the knife drawer, and then upstairs, where she came into her daughter's room. The Spy never noticed a thing.

* * *

The door creaked.

As she walked into her daughter's cold room, she saw the covers move up and down to the beat of her daughter's steady breathing. She wasn't in pain at the time. The woman secured the handle of the long kitchen knife in her hand. It shook as she approached the bed.

Look at her, she mused, a sweet little angel asleep. But as soon as she wakes, she would be in pain, gruesome, agonizing pain. Irene never wanted to see her daughter in such a state again. The knife was raised up.

They were not wanted here. They were nothing but a burden. Irene wanted to be relieved from the burden she created so badly. The heavy knife made her calloused palms ache. But she couldn't complain. It was too late now.

The air that flew from Sarah's nose as she was breathing was almost like one of those songs she used to sing. Such a helpless creature… she made everybody feel at ease whenever a melody left her lips. She was like a bird; a mockingbird. She knew that they were going to die, too. She coped by singing her heart out.

A mockingbird…

Irene slowly lifted up the knife, in a daze of confusion and relief.

Would it be such a sin to kill it?

* * *

It would be much later after the fight. The van was moving towards the base. The Spy awaited them eagerly. It was then when he heard the spine-chilling scream of death and agony.

_She called out his name in the damaged, bombed streets of Marseilles. His name was a cry, and the cry was of hopelessness. And her sorrow echoed through the buildings and cadavers lying in the road. She was alone, completely alone. Her breathing was heavy._

_As though a knife flew in her abdomen, she felt incredible pain. She grabbed her stomach and fell to her knees, placing her head on the ground as she sobbed. She died that day, a part of her. And it was now rotting, festering away, slowly killing her from the inside._

He never knew that such a foul sound could be heard again. The returning party heard it as well, they rushed upstairs. The Spy flung open the door and saw the sight; a figure clutching herself and sobbing over the mess of blood and sheets.

The Spy watched the sight with his mouth ajar and his eyes wide in horror. He heard the Engineer's rushing footsteps. And suddenly, he felt sick. For the first time, a Spy was sickened by the amount of blood a body could produce and let seep away with a strike of a sharpened blade.

* * *

.

.

.

**A/N: **You really thought I was going to let Irene get away with being a Mary-Sue? _Please._


	27. The Terror-dactyl

**A/N: **A silly plot twist. A character death. A cliffhanger.

Ah, yes... I missed writing. Incidentally, sorry for lack of gore.

* * *

There was something oddly soothing about the fact that this was the end.

Graveline watched her once sterile, pristine laboratory with an air of longing and despair. It was now empty, illuminated by some bright, neon lights. The entire room seemed to be raided by ghosts, spirits of the laboratory's once bright and proud past. The scientist could still hear the buzzing and clicking of the machinery and the stirring against the test tubes. Clicking, clacking, dripping, dropping… It all reminded her of the times long past.

She missed the chatter of her colleagues, who had fled to safer grounds. How safe were they, exactly? None could tell. Those Infected menaces never came close to the bounds, but one could never be too careful. The woman secluded herself in this room, along with her assistant. The assistant was now wandering the halls and corridors, sometimes peeking into the rooms that held the test subjects. Many died, already, their corpses filling the premises with a foul, tangy smell of rotting flesh. Their bodies decreased in size, eaten by many starving maggots.

One crawled up to Graveline's gloved hand. She did not even look in its direction before firmly pressing her thumb against it. After all this, what was the life of a bug? They would all be crushed, both maggots and men. When it was killed, the bug emitted a reddish substance and let out a squishy sound, like squirting water out of a balloon. The scientist did not bother to wipe off the blood that left a small, brown circle on the tip of her thumb. The liquid mixed with the rubber of her glove.

"Doctor Graveline?"

The woman ran her fingers through her dark hair, tangled by weeks of neglect and wrapped with the strap of her goggles. Her locks seemed almost white; the neon light ricocheted off the greasy base. Her eyes were lined with fine crumbs that came with the drying of tears, and the small, almost purplish orbs floated in a messy, watery puddle of red. Red blemishes covered her chin and cheeks that were both puffy and sinking inside her skull at the same time. Her assistant, Synestra, seemed to be in better condition, but not by much. She too was tired, but held herself upright while her boss slouched over her white desk. Seeing the woman's posture, Graveline sat up, supporting herself with the palm of her hand. She stood with a grunt.

She could hardly bring herself to speak, and when she did, the words were uttered in a raspy, desperate, hopeless tone. Everybody abandoned her, and her body and its functions had begun to do the same.

"What happened, Synestra?" Her body barely stood straight. "What happened to us?"

The younger girl just watched and managed a shrug, unable to think of anything else to do.

"We… we looked too far ahead. We wanted to be recognized, so we only tried to keep this a secret." With an air of anguish and defeat, Graveline looked behind her, reflecting on her times of glory. Her assistant continued in a softer tone. "We should have focused on this. If our time had been consumed with stopping this – "

"What's the point?" Graveline interrupted in a void tone that grew raspy with impatience and hopelessness. "_We _caused this. I was too occupied with the miracle drug to care for the people it might have cured. I thought this would just burn out… I ignored it!" She pointed at herself, now with an impatient fury. "I caused this!" And with that not-at-all proud exclamation, she hopelessly looked to the side. "I am to blame."

And her assistant watched her with her emerald eyes, one hidden behind her dark eye patch. For only a second she watched her boss, her creator, quiet and miserable in front of her. She wondered what a human might have done at that point. She would have approached, gingerly placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, a banal act that helped no one. But it could form… trust. Did she really want trust? Maybe the truth was what Graveline wanted…

Synestra tucked her hands behind her back. She took one long, very idle step.

"You are not to blame completely… You _did _cause this, I'm not going to say otherwise, but…" she stopped, a small smile trying to creep over her visage. She restrained it, but with some trouble. The scientist did not even look her way. She continued; "But you did create something that caused it. But I wouldn't worry. For all you know, these Infected creatures are just… overture for what's yet to come."

Graveline watched the dust around her, her eyes suddenly becoming wide. Her head turned to her assistant, now smirking at her. The woman, nonplused by this statement, posed a question.

"What… what do you mean?"

"I mean," Synestra spoke as she paced to the right, her eyes shot up towards the ceiling; "that there might be something more to this New Plague. Maybe these creatures are just a distraction before the mayhem. And who knows what's yet to come… No, no, no…" she chuckled darkly, shaking her head. Her bloody red locks shook and fell over her pale face. "You are not to blame. Not completely."

And with that statement, she stopped and watched her creator. The same creator that took her in when she was running away from home. The same creator that promised her a new life, away from disappointment, away from regret if she were just to leave everything behind. But she still bore too much baggage. Graveline had to undertake desperate measures. One trip to the separation chamber was all it took. One stinging, watery sensation and her persona was split in two. One a cheery, bubbly, blonde creature with a high-pitched voice and all her emotions. One rational, calculated assistant, with nothing to lose and nothing to care for. Two women that came from an abomination; one pure evil, the other pure moron. The latter was named after a Pink Floyd song and shipped to Tennessee. The other stayed, surrounded by beakers and machines. And Graveline was stupid enough to teach her the basics of using them. All it took were a few lines of DNA code, a few testing animals… All was going according to plan.

And after months of preparation, cleansing the unwanted men of the world, those that couldn't stand up to her, it was finally the time to put her plan into action. All the weak, pathetic worms would no longer serve her. She would be the ruler of all men, finally! And all that stood in her way was this pathetic creature, foolish enough to create her and give her free will and enough creativity to think of something this vile.

"What…" the scientist leaned her head to the side, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What did you do?"

Graveline then heard a strange, shrieking sound, similar to the wailing of a child. But it sounded ancient; like a sound no modern-day man would ever hear. It was a cry of a flying beast, its wails becoming sharp as the hordes flew above their base. Then, the wails were reduced to distant creaks. Synestra looked up; her eyes flew over the tiled ceiling. Her master's, her creator's eyes followed the path. She watched the sound, Graveline with dread and her creation with great pleasure. She smiled cruelly.

"Synestra!" Graveline screamed with fury, craning her head back towards her assistant. "What did you -?!"

A folding chair smacked the woman at the base of her head, and she fell on the cold floor instantaneously. The redhead watched her creator, failing her before her very eyes. A corner of her mouth twitched upwards as she lowered the metal construction and leaned on it. She smiled at the sky with an odd sense of pride.

"I bested you."

And what good was a mentor if his scholars don't grow up to defeat him, crush him, pulverize him into dust?

Graveline's eyes were glassy and emptied of life.

* * *

So were Irene's.

It only took one drop of blood to stain a glass of water. It only took one drop of blood in her eye to make her once sparkling pools of blue into a pinkish, watery abomination. They were looking up at nothing, half-closed. Her bottom lip fell and exposed her reddish teeth. Her hair lay in frayed locks over the white pillows; one was clutched with her claw-like hand. It was the left hand, blood hardening on its palm. The red imprint was left on the cotton threads, marking them so they could forever be the reminder of a life lost.

Her clothes were drenched with the blood, so thick and syrupy that the viscous substance actually connected itself to her forearm, forming a small line of a bridge. It was dangling, moving and jittering whenever somebody dared to breathe in or out. But the bloody connection never broke.

Her once golden brown skin tone had flushed into a sickly blob of dreary gray, and all the color was now seeping in its pure crimson form, over the sheets and over the sharp knife she once clutched in her hand, that fell over her cut abdomen. It finally stopped squirting over the walls. The gasping had finally stopped and Sarah's mother fell over the bed. Her daughter was crouched five feet away from her mother's listless body. Her hands were cupping her narrow shoulders, chills flew through her and every one seemed like the grasp of Death that just took her mother.

For minutes the girl watched her mother bleed. She had awoken from her slumber to find her raised-up hand about to strike her with the blade. Her eyes went wide and her mouth expanded in a gasp. The girl's body prepared itself for the pain, paralyzing and holding still, like one of those photographs of war casualties. They all stopped still. They all screamed, somewhere, somehow. But their screams could never be heard. But at that point her mother's hand shook and her lip began to wobble. The girl was still clutching her covers when her mother switched the blade until it faced her. The point of it teased her, mocked her and tricked her into thinking that she was a coward, that she was useless. She was sent on this Earth to watch her loved ones die. Her friends yesterday, her family tomorrow, perhaps. If God had enough cruelty to make her wait…

But with a steely gaze, Irene defied the faith in store for her. With a look of loathing and revolt, the woman pierced her own stomach. At first she felt nothing; her hand was stuck on the black matte handle. Then she felt cold, freezing cold. The blood was running down her forearm. The pain came, and the woman gasped as she came to terms that the tool ruptured her stomach. The sensation was horrid and blinding. She restrained her gasps, they came out like sobs. Nobody in the house ever noticed sobs. Screams, yes, but never sobs. Losing the feeling in her body, she fell on the bed beside her daughter. The girl had yet to make a sound. The woman moved her head towards the sick daughter with great strain. The blood was flowing down her blouse. The knife slid out, like her body was warm butter. Instinctively, Irene grabbed the wound, trying to compress it. Maybe to keep herself alive for just a second longer, just to let her daughter know she always cared, she loved her! She didn't want to see her suffer, really! White light flashed before her eyes and she grabbed her daughter's apple-shaped face. She caressed her cheek, lovingly slid down her hand to the girl's chin, and then ran her golden hair behind her ear.

With that action, a trail of blood stayed on Sarah. A stain that stiffened on her and released a coppery smell. Unable to say anything, she recoiled in horror. She managed to crawl off the bed that was being soiled with the rapid squirts. The knife fell out of Irene's hand and clanked as it hit the floor. The woman grabbed the pillow she placed her hand against. She hissed and coiled in unbearable pain. A brownish substance began seeping down her chin, over her trembling jaw. Her arms were brought in the fetal position, but only for a moment, a sad, pathetic, whimpering moment before she stretched out again.

The woman's vision was blurry; her daughter seemed to far away. The girl's heart raced as she watched Irene. They were both breathing heavily.

Irene took one deep breath. Her blood seemed to quicken, almost as if the bleeding was coming to an end. She felt warmer, somehow, more at ease. It was warm where she was going…

She took another deep breath and expired.

Her daughter watched the mother's lifeless body, unable to say a word. Her frame shook with fear and disease, she fell on her knees. A whole life without her mother, all she left were the bloodied sheets and the smell of metal on her daughter's cheek. The blood was still wet in parts; it dirtied the girl's fingertips. The girl clutched her stomach. But the issue that pushed her over the edge was that the knife was meant for her. She knew. She saw it.

She screamed.

Before she could even come to her senses, three men entered the room to see the woman's massacred body. The girl could only hear the echo of her own scream, though the air was being flooded with words of horror and pleas to God. Her head did not move from the floorboards for a while. She felt her dad's hand on her back but pushed it away. She wanted to scream again, but couldn't. No sound came out. Or maybe it was so loud and brutal, desperate and alone, that nobody could have trained their ears to hear it. Everything was slow. Her father watched with agony as his daughter pushed him away, ran through the room, past the Spy who watched the woman with less sadness and more rage. She flew out of the room and embraced the Sniper that stood at the doorframe. She buried her head in his ribs, sobbing with restrain, weakened by the ailment.

The Engineer watched the Sniper insecurely place his hand over the girl's shoulder and lead her out of the mayhem. The Texan had his fingers running though his wife's fine locks. He touched her face, her shoulders, the fingers of her hands. Her curled them up and placed a kiss on them, begging her to come back. He was trapped in anguish and frustration. Why would she have done this? What caused this? And why now?

The Spy stood by the entire time, his gaze not leaving the bloody corpse for a second.

He remained trapped in that room for what seemed like an eternity, before the Texan stood up and walked out of the room. His ashen face seemed stained by the stubble of his chin; his eyes were like lumps of ice. He walked past the Spy, averting his gaze. The Frenchman looked away in respect for the man.

The emissary needed a lot of control to finally allow himself to approach the woman's bed. She was so calm now, so at peace. He kneeled by her and chuckled.

"You selfish bitch."

Another burst of laughter escaped him, terrifying because he did not expect it. No respect for the dead, not the ones who never deserved any while they lived.

"You selfish bitch," he repeated once more, leaving the room. The body was left alone, blackened and put to shame.

* * *

_She ran to him and not to me._

The Engineer watched the coffee-stained surface of the dining room table. The newest, moist, brownish stain was coming from the bottom of his scotch-filled glass. When he brought it, he thought that the red seal would be opened in heat of triumph, celebration and victory over those unholy creatures. He did open it, but in severe misery. Every sip was gulped with haste, and a grimace followed the bittersweet harmony of alcohol that poured down his sore throat. His eyes were fixated on the table; he sometimes ran his human hand over it.

He remembered the times before. The times spent laughing, plotting battle outcomes. None of those outcomes involved a team member dying. Not a single one involved complete loss of hope and will to carry on. Nobody could have predicted this.

The more he tried not to think about the deeds he wronged, the more his mind wandered towards the memories of Irene. How he told her to stay safe and not to intrude. The swift, slapping motion that left her in tears the night Scout burnt to ashes. His words came back to him, words that convinced her that everything was fine; there was nothing to worry about. Blatant lies that he used to comfort her came rushing back. And in all that time, he never allowed her to be in distress. Maybe, just maybe, if he had allowed her to cry and be hysterical, if he had held her close and stroked her back whenever she doubted their victorious outcome… maybe she would have still been alive. He wished he could hold her again; feel her heartbeat steadying against his own and inhaling the rosy scent of her scalp. She was the love of his life, and how did he show her that? He ignored her. He was ashamed of her. When the others objected to her, he would just stand aside, glaring at them but never interrupting. He knew they were right on some level.

And what now? Irene lay on that blood-stained bed, her mouth agape as though she were calling for help. Her eyes were deep but empty, like forgotten wells coated with moss and grime. Those eyes haunted him, not the blood, not the screaming. As much as those orbs showed fear, they showed disappointment. He had failed as a husband, and was now failing as a father.

Sarah witnessed the act. She shrieked. He even heard it from the outside. And when he arrived to see the sight, Sarah was up and running towards the Sniper, in his arms, sobbing her little eyes out. She barely looked at her father.

He couldn't blame her. She was in shock, they all were. But still…

He couldn't help but to think of himself as a waste of space. The liquor and this realization, that he was the weakest link of the family, the rusty, stretched-out link that put his own pride ahead of the people caring for him, kept him seated. He couldn't even stand up and walk over to his daughter. He didn't even know where she was.

He did know, however, who she was with.

He gulped down the last drops before slamming the glass against the table and falling forward, over his crossed hands. He stayed there, thinking of his life, of his strife, of his wife.

They would have been safer if he had let them stay in Texas. Without him. Without this madness.

* * *

His calloused hands were running over the girl's greasy locks of wheat-colored hair. They stuck and twirled around his fingers, and the motion of his hand oft left her hair in puffy clumps. This did not bother him, for it was the only efficacious method of soothing her. Her hair was buried in his lap, hiding her swollen, red face. The television glared at them, casting white light on the girl's weakened body that at times emitted a wince, a reflex that did not pass even when the sobs did. Despite this, her breathing had steadied, and the marksman considered her to be fast asleep.

He did not mind the blood that fell in crumbs, off her cheeks and on his pants. She did not bother to clean it, and he said nothing for it. He watched her shoulders rise and fall while she breathed with a feeling of sympathy. The girl would not be sleeping tonight, she couldn't after this. True, her eyes were closed, and she was breathing steadily. But the images of her massacred mother would haunt her whenever she dares to dream or fall asleep. Her body completed the resting function, but not well, and Sarah was fully aware of everything. Every touch over her head, and every sound that surrounded her.

The girl might have heard the footsteps, but the Sniper did not. The Spy finally lowered himself down to the living room, gingerly approaching the two and sting on an ottoman.

"How is she?" Spy asked softly, leaning over the gap between his knees. The Sniper watched the girl, who just released another empty, reflexive jitter.

"I wouldn't know. She can't be fine. But she… she isn't too bad."

The girl whimpered at those words, not necessarily because she heard them. The Spy watched her and sat straight with a sigh.

"Give her time… it's all we have now."

"I just don't get it." The Sniper ran his hand over the girl's head and rested it upon her ear, possibly to muffle the conversation. "I knew there was something off about… you know… but I never thought she'd… I never…"

The Sniper seemed to forget the basics of semantics. Luckily, the Spy knew what he was getting at. He suddenly felt strange, like he was being choked. His fingers loosened his tie and grabbed it firmly. The fabric was examined in his hand; it had begun to fray. So did his suit; the back was shiny and it was almost threadbare at parts. But he did not worry about the suit.

It was a small ritual of his; removing something off his body whenever somebody died. When the Soldier died, he took off his jacket. He lost his gloves for the Demoman and Pyro. His vest was taken off for the Scout. The Heavy and the Medic did not get anything; the traitors shouldn't. And now, he took off his tie for Irene. The sacrifice wasn't symbolic as it was liberating; one less person to pretend for, one less person to be sane for. The man was running out of clothes… and friends.

"I don't get it," the Sniper finally interrupted the Spy from his daze. "Irene isn't the person to do… _that_," he stressed, pressing his hand on Sarah's head. "She's too strong for that."

The Spy looked to the side.

Mundy slowly leaned forward and reduced his voice to a whisper.

"Did anything happen while we were out? Anything? Was she acting strange?"

The Spy watched Mundy with a node in his throat. It took a while before he swallowed it, wringing his ungloved hands and muttering.

"No. Nothing I recall of."

"Hm. That doesn't help much."

"Why are you so interested?" The Spy asked, almost defensively. "As far as I know, you two were at each other's throats. You wanted her gone, she wanted you dead."

"What? A man isn't supposed to care?"

"Care for whom? A madwoman who took her own life even though her child was in need of her?"

The child whimpered, wailing and curling herself up. The Sniper held her close.

"Spook…"

"By all means, why not care about somebody who vowed to destroy you and wished you death after you went out of your way to help her daughter. What a wonderful woman that is! Not to mention loyal and right in the head…"

"Spook."

"Oh, I know that type of sadness. As long as she's dead, she's a saint!" He lifted up his arms in frustration. "But nobody cared when she was alive; nobody cared that she was a selfish, whiny, greedy bi - !"

"Spook!"

The Spy looked at the marksman, then at the girl, then at the marksman once more. He lowered his hands and inhaled deeply.

"I apologize," he said, more to himself. "I don't know what came over me."

"You're upset," the Sniper said, slowly placing the girl next to him. Her head lulled on the couch cushions. "It's understandable. Just try to control it."

The Spy nodded.

"I will try."

"You know, for a second, I'm not sure you were talking about Irene at all."

"I said," the Spy responded through a snarl; "I. Will. Try."

That shut the Sniper up. He averted his eyes towards the girl, whose lip was beginning to tremble. She was looking at night terrors that would haunt her for days, weeks. It would be months before she could get a full night's rest, but even then, the memories would haunt her, in waves, for no particular reason. It could take as little as the sight of an ordinary kitchen knife to trigger her hysterics. Nobody was looking forward to that.

"What happened to your arm?"

"Huh?" The Sniper asked, looking at his blood-soaked sleeve. He almost forgot about the bullet wedged inside. Every motion hurt during the first hour, but later it became dead weight. He did not even notice it until the Frenchman pointed it out.

"Oh, this? It's…" he gulped. "It's a long story."

"Long how? Would it take too long to explain, or are you simply unwilling to?"

"Both," the Sniper confessed. He ran his fingers over the wound. The blood clotted up nicely, leaving only a mound of brown crust. He picked at it, to the very slight disgust of the Spy. Bits of the scab stayed wedged in Sniper's fingernails.

It was a while when both of them realized that the Engineer hasn't left the dining room in hours. They both watched the door, their eyes wide and reflecting worry.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" The Sniper asked, almost light-heartedly, given the situation. "He usually did the burials… but right now, I don't think he'll even want to come close to her again. And who could blame him? But… there's a line between distress and insanity."

"Do you think he's going to cross the line?"

"I think we all have, mate. Now we're just waiting to realize it."

The Spy nodded once before standing up and sitting on the couch, beside the sleeping girl. He stared at the brightness of the screen, knowing that a movie was playing; _A Streetcar Named Desire_, no less. Staring Vivien Leigh. A film that Sarah knew by heart, and the Spy had seen enough times to call it his own religion. But now neither could watch it with enjoyment. It became meaningless. All those actors were dead, everybody working on the film, everybody at the broadcasting station. They just set up a schedule; the films would run as long as there was something to be shown. And in a few days, the films would all be shown, and everything would turn blank.

"He's going to be alright," the Spy said in a hollow tone, cupping his chin and gazing into a crack on the wall. "He has to be."

_Thump!_

The Sniper looked up and observed his surroundings, more specifically, the area around the ceiling. His ears perked up, and he listened intently.

"Do ya hear that?"

Hear what?" The Spy asked, retracted from his daze.

"That… noise."

_Thump!_

"Hm. Must've been the wind."

This did not convince the Sniper. As soon as he heard the third thud, he stood up and walked out of the room, his limp arm flailing by a few inches as he walked. The Spy watched him and tried to call out to him, to warn him, but he was stopped when he felt two small arms grasp him. He looked at the figure, her pale, blood-covered face and glassy eyes, which now looked like small pearls due to their clearness.

He was not comfortable like this. But the least he could have done was to stay still.

He did, just until thunder struck outside.

It rolled across the sky and lingered in the air, its wrath shaking the base. The man was suddenly stock-still. The girl noticed his rigidness after uncovering her face from his white shirt.

"You… you hate thunder, too?"

The man did not want to answer, but seeing those pleading eyes that have seen such horrors; it would have just been cruel of him to deny a simple answer, wouldn't it?

"I dislike it. I have memories involving it that I do not find fond."

"It's scary," Sarah said, curling up closer to him. "My mom used to tell me thunder was nothing to be afraid of, but I knew better. And I think she was scared of it, too. She'd always come into my room and hug me when those came 'round…"

The Spy nodded after another blast followed. He placed his arm around her, quite perfunctorily. The girl smiled in thanks just before her eyes filled up to the brim with tears. Another jitter and she fell back into his shirt.

And he just sat there, watching the blinking screen that slowly put the two of them to sleep. He didn't see it, but as she closed her eyes once more, her lips moved; matching the dialogue shown on the film.

_"Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."_

* * *

The rain attacked his face as the Sniper fought off the Infected that crouched on the roof. The atrocious beast was black in the night, covered with oozing bruises and shooting daggers at Mundy through its beady red eyes, as wide as strawberries. Its teeth leaked blood as it growled. Those damn things were becoming uglier; stronger, too.

The marksman had stricken it with the Kukri, the curved edge bruising the creature just enough to madden it. The Infected growled and pounced at him, grabbing Mundy's arms. The man kicked him off. As the creature fell, Mundy almost lost his balance on the roofing. His arm flailed, trying to make up for the other one lacking motion. It did not stop him from charging at the best once more. The creature lay by his feet, curled up and screaming in pain. Its screams were muffled and interwoven with roaring thunder. A streak of light flew across the cloudy, roaring sky. Gray clouds fell over the dark, like tidal waves. Rain poured, flooding the gutters and making the roof slick. It was truly a horrifying sight.

Mundy stood and raised his arm up to give the finishing blow to this ugly creature. But then he made a giant mistake; he looked up into the sky.

Through the smoke and clouds, he saw a winged beast; an oversized crow with a wide jaw, screeching at the field. It flapped its wings with the force of a hurricane. Its color was a bright scarlet, and its presence almost looked like the stormy sky was bleeding. Its razor-sharp, shiny claws were stretched, big enough to grab a small shed. It held them out, screaming and flying over the man. He followed the beast, unaware of the battle he was fighting. The beast's skin was oily, slick and glossy on the light of the lightning bolts. The man watched it leave, its tail dragged behind.

Mundy's jaw fell down to his chest.

"What the – AGH!"

He finally slashed the creature as it attacked his leg. The Infected's head was decapitated in one swift motion. The head rolled off the roof, dragging a trail of black. Mundy stepped on his leg; the pain that ensued was comparable to being struck with a chainsaw. He rolled back and slid off the roof.

The half pipe of the gutters could have been helpful; provided the marksman had two functioning and well-coordinated arms to grab them.

For a second, everything was slow. He watched the drops of rain detach themselves from his face as he fell. He heard his heartbeat. He smelt the freshly-drawn blood. The odd, fantastic, nightmarish beast was flying away into the hills. A white streak cracked the sky in two, releasing bright light.

The rattle of the thunder matched the crack of Mundy's spine.


	28. The Inscription

**A/N: **I would like to thank ChaosandMayhem for nitpicking at this... thing.

Returning from our roof-hanger... *cough* I mean cliff-hanger.

* * *

_Adelaide, Australia, 1968_

The moon seemed unusually large that night, standing at the centre of the sky, gathering the crackling flames and small bursts of light coming from the campfire he and the girl had set up. The celestial body was almost lost in the dense smoke, and left nothing but brightness.

As a result, the sky seemed gray, like the surface of the ocean on a late autumn afternoon. Mundy watched the sky with a strange calmness. Leaning against his camper van, one arm lazily resting atop his knee, he watched the dance of the smoke taking place before his eyes. His nostrils were filled with the smoky scent; this caused him to slide his hand under his nose briefly before looking up again. He sniffed. Suddenly, his eyes lowered and he watched the girl, sitting with her legs crisscross. She wasn't looking up into the sky, instead ogling the small pebbles around her. Uninterestedly, she nudged them with the tip of her fingers. She could only think about how cold it was outside. It was an Australian winter, but it was never this cold before. Her fingers grazed the surface of her upper arms. The older man noticed the emptiness in her emerald eyes.

"You alright, Sheila?" He asked, thus making the girl flinch. For a second, he watched the golden glow on her round, puerile face. The fire seemed to be giving her a shine, and aura that stretched from the side of her jaw to the side of her forehead, and then across her nose when she turned to the fire again.

"I just…" she began, dragging one of her fingers across the surface of the sandy ground. It left a small trail, its soot becoming stuck in the girl's fingernail. "I was just thinking…"

Before Mundy could dare to guess that statement, the girl moved closer to him. Immediately he felt that odd knot in the pit of his stomach, the one that came with every touch of the girl's arm or an involuntary brush against her shoulder. Lately the knot formed itself for less; now just a small movement towards him. He kept calm, ignoring the sensation of guilt that flushed him like a wave.

"How do you do it, Mundy?" The girl asked, tilting her head to her left. Slowly, she crawled towards the van, about a whole foot away from her. She sat close to the man, dusting off her dirtied, scrapped knees. The man watched the lines of dirt within the small cuts with an urge to clean the abrasions and put a band-aid on them. And antiseptic, perhaps, if it would make her feel better. But what kind of assassin would be thinking that? Luckily, her Bostonian-Texan accent pulled him out of his state of deep thought. Thank God, he thought. Just a couple of days, and I would never hear her accent again.

Oh God, he thought. Just a couple of days and I would never hear her accent again.

"How do you do it? I mean… I saw you killing those men. Hell, I even shot one myself…"

"You have good aim, Sheila," he said with an encouraging smile. "If this film school deal doesn't work out, you can always get into hunting game."

"Thank you," she said flatly; "but that ain't what I was going to say. And don't look straight at the camera," she instructed as she saw the man's eyes flicker to the boxy, buzzing contraption placed upon a stray block of granite.

The corners of Mundy's lips fell downwards as the girl sighed. The red locks of her hair fell over her pale, almost shiny neck. Just once did the man get a chance to touch those locks of hers; an idle, playful ruffling that left a soft scent of store-bought herbal shampoo on his fingertips. The scent faded from his fingers before the memory of it could. His eyes fell on her frame again, he felt like he should stab himself in the stomach just for allowing himself that.

"I think…" she started; "I don't think I could ever do that. I mean, the blood, the shots… the thought of separating those people from their families forever. And when they try and shoot you down? I can't even imagine doing that for a living."

"It's more of a hobby," Mundy joked. "I'd never get involved with those corporate, competitive, heartless massacres. They take all the fun out of it."

"You must see it differently than I do." She shrugged. "All I see is dying. And those teeth you keep as souvenirs, I…" she shook her head in disbelief and shuddered. To feel that shudder against his body, just once, just one errant twitch.

Testing his luck, he scooted over to her, just an inch closer, maybe two. It was a hell of a lot to him. The hairs scattered across his arms erected, a worm of confusion and self-hate crawled under his skin. All this to be a step closer, just one step closer to his sweet, sweet Caroline.

Pepper batted her eyes open, an act so sudden it made the words that spewed out of her mouth seem like a rain of bullets.

"Does it ever get easier? Do you ever become numb to it? I couldn't."

The man considered the question briefly. He could tell her the truth. He could tell her something that bothered him since the first time that he made his first kill. How disgusted he was with himself, how he was nauseous for weeks before that. But a job was a job, and he needed to get it done. Another body fell, soon after. He did not feel disgusted anymore, just disappointed. By the time he made five kills, the feeling went away completely. It meant nothing to him, the ammo wasted, the people he shot. They all merged into an unrecognizable blob, a victim that had no place being on this earth. Following the mantra of 'if they didn't deserve it, they wouldn't be on the list', the man found his job to be not only very usual, but even relaxing at times.

But that was as far as the gore went.

The feeling in his gut, the terrified wringing sensation, came from a much deeper place. He worried for the people he loved that might be affected by this. He worried for his family. He tried not to stay in one place too long. All the people in the world could know that he was a hired assassin, and he wouldn't care. He would hop into his van and drive away into the sunset, never looking back. But his parents stayed in place. Those who couldn't kill him could track them down. This is what terrified him, the thought of losing the very few people that cared about him. Luckily for him, the list was very short.

The girl propped her head on the man's shoulder, looking up at the stars. The herbal scent of her scalp combined with the earthy, brown scent of her pale guileless limbs made him look away, biting the inside of his cheek. Still, he could feel the girl's gaze penetrating the sky, even though he wasn't looking at her. He inhaled, trying to slow down his heartbeat. A man his age should not even be thinking of it, let alone act on it in any physical way. Trying to drag his thoughts away from this girl, be began talking about his business. It was still the only thing he could keep his head clear about.

"It, uh… it does get easier. It becomes a routine. Routines are always easy."

"But what if something happens to you? What if you get hurt?"

The man smirked at her. "I don't get hurt, Sheila."

"But what if you did, what then? What if somebody tries to kill you?"

Mundy looked around the dusty plain of the desert. The fire was suddenly very quiet, the crackling reduced in volume and the smoke wisps thinned and became wobbly streaks of heated air. The exhale through his nose that ensued could have put the fire out. His gloved hand touched the girl's shoulder, but he did not think about it. He did not even notice at first, paralyzed with his own grim realization.

"They won't bother. I'm not that important. Nobody assassinates successful assassins. If they were really successful, they never could have gotten caught."

Pepper's worried expression seemed to soften at the note. Her head pressed itself against the marksman's arm. Only then did he notice that his hand was lingering on her, and he pulled it away with haste. Pepper noticed the action but didn't move.

And Pepper! The sweet, crude darling, the lovely Peppermint… who was the brilliant man who bestowed upon her that name? The pop of one's lips, the repeating burst as well, and the purr his lips involuntarily made as he dragged out the last consonant of her name were almost therapeutic. Or would have been, given the fact that he never brought himself to say it. Addressing her by name would suggest intimacy, and that was not something he wanted to be associated with. Not this creature, blabbing once again in that odd brogue.

"But you are important! To more people than you'd care to realize. That's why I worry about you. If something were to happen while I'm here… or when I'm gone…"

Her arm slid over the man's abdomen in a very childish, very loose embrace. The man held his breath. What was this girl? Why was she with him? Why would she be putting her browning arms around him, a man she didn't even know that well? She acted like an imprudent child most times, and when she did, she dragged him down into his carefree past. One touch, one look, at least one word spoken in a harsh tone, and he would be brought back into the loving arms of his youth. No wrinkles, no worries, just his prey, his mates and the wide, broad outback, that seemed so much longer and wider than it did now.

He saw its light again, for the first time in over a decade, and this terrified him. He was no fool; he knew that his feelings were not mutual. The girl considered him a battered old geezer, and she was not too far off from the truth. She would leave with the piss-soaked memory of a daft, ancient marksman and his fascination for reducing the world's population one miserable bastard at a time. And he would be left alone. He would drive from one location to another until he found himself broken, defeated, lying in the rain. It would be a bullet that would end his life, he knew that. It would be an act of vengeance, betrayal or a coup de grâce.

But for the next couple of moments, he would be young and cared for by his ditzy, spoilt fountain of youth. Would it be so unforgivable to close his eyes and enjoy the moment, just for a moment?

God have mercy on her, he thought when he closed his eyes and could feel nothing but the frays of her puffy hair against his jaw line.

God have mercy on me.

* * *

_Harvest military base, 1973_

It wasn't the electric, buzzing static of the television that awoke him. It was its disappearance.

The blinding whiteness of the set disappeared into a small incandescent dot on the screen before fading entirely. Being soothed by this brightness, the Spy found the sudden darkness surrounding his eyelids somewhat unnerving. He opened his eyes with strain, feeling as though he had been hit by a freight train. His head felt light, his body fell numb, a knot was stuck at the back of his neck, and he was now seeing blotches of green and purple every time he came to closing his dry, weary eyes. He tried to familiarize himself with his surroundings, slowly stepping on the floor. As his foot made impact, hundreds of pins and needles came rushing through his skin. He grinded his teeth and stood up, the pain in his neck cancelling out the pain in his stiff body. Smacking his tongue against his pallet, he looked around and came to three conclusions.

One, the power was out. Two, Sarah was gone. Three, so was Mundy.

He scratched behind his ear and moved across the room, his head lulling in exhaustion. He knew he looked especially pathetic in this state of his; sporting a yellowing white shirt and ruffled pants, bruised and beaten, deprived of food and sleep. He dragged his feet across the rickety floorboards, listening to the Engineer's sobs coming from upstairs. He must have gone to see Irene. The Spy respected that. If Winifred had died close to him, he would have done the same; curled up beside her, held her as if his touch alone could have brought her to life. And then he would unlink himself from her, but never let go.

That's what he would have done if he was with her… But right now, he could only guess what could have happened to her.

He stumbled across the darkness, his eyes adjusting to the bleak colors of gray and blue. He walked around the house, wanting to see where the Sniper could have gone. There was no lanky figure to look for. Even the furniture seemed like it did not take up space. Everything around him reminded him of mirages, ghosts and ghouls that might disappear as soon as he opened his eyes. Unaware how, he maneuvered around them, leaning on the walls. He slowly stepped into the kitchen, where a small girl was sitting at the dinner table, her arms crossed.

"He's outside," she said in a cracked voice, looking up at the Spy. Her tone was close to a whine, the only difference being that it was more broken and deeper. Through the blackness, the Spy could envision the girl's eyes, wide and bright red. They watched his frame as intently as they could have. The Spy managed to speak, despite his dry throat.

"Mundy's outside?" He asked, craning his head to the side and looking through the barricaded window. He could still see the blueness of the night, whose sky was slowly being shadowed with dense, gray clouds. It had rained before, and it seemed close to raining again. He turned back to the girl. "Why is he outside?"

The girl watched with wide eyes.

"Outside," she repeated softly, placing her head on her crossed arms. She remained like this for a couple of seconds before planting her face in her forearms. She would not be speaking to anybody anymore. The Spy worried about her, but said nothing.

When he turned to leave the house, he could only think about the little droplets of rain he thought he had seen on the girl's head.

Sarah sniffled once the man left the room.

* * *

It was a flash of memory that followed the flash of bright light. The lightening slit the sky in half while the fall broke his spine in two. He laid in the rain, on the dirt and mud that surrounded him and soaked into his red shirt. A gun was on his chest, and he felt its weight. Sadly, he could not move it. He could not even move his fingers to touch the handle. His body sank into the moist ground, like it would in quicksand. He was gone. The blue eyes were covered with a golden film and looking away from the house and into the body of the Infected that he had been fighting with before he came crashing down. His flesh was still pungent from the black blood the sharpshooter drew. It billowed into the breathing man's nostrils and lingered. With the clash of rain and the cries of thunder, the Sniper did not notice the heavy footsteps, fast and almost panicked. They weren't really, nobody could afford to panic. But in this case, it was as close as one allowed himself to get.

"Mundy!" The Spy cried as he saw him, his voice showing emotion for the first time. The Sniper shifted his eyes to the soaked Spy, kneeling by him in the rain.

"What happened?" He asked loudly, trying to overpower the rush of rain that produced a hissing cluster of noise. "How long have you been here?"

The Sniper did not respond at first. His gaze fell on the decapitated Infected before shooting back at the Spy. He could not tell his expression, due to the rain in his eyes and the drenched balaclava. However, he dared to guess that the man was in distress. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

"I got 'im, Spook," he said with an air of relief. "I did something right."

The Spy wasted no time, grabbing the man by the wounded arm. His finger fell right on the bullet hole. The worst part was that Mundy did not even feel the grasp. The Frenchman gave the arm one pull.

"Get up," he commanded. The Sniper lay still, not budging an inch. The Spy repeated the action, pulling the extremity with force that was barely short of ripping the man's arm clear out of its socket. "I said, get up!" He repeated, through gritted teeth this time.

"Don't bother," the man said, still with a smile on his face. "I ain't worth it. It ain't worth keeping me around. Just let go of me. Go back inside, you'll freeze to death."

"For God's sake, this isn't the time for one of your identity crisis! Get up, I order you to get up!" The Spy yelled, unaware of the volume of his voice. He breathed heavily, through his mouth. He gave the man a couple of weak twitches before letting the arm fall like a rag atop the man's body. He watched it. It did not move. He did not bother to move it. And then, a grim revelation fell over the Spy's eyes, the one that crept up to him as he ran outside, and has now pounced and attacked him like a rabid mountain lion.

He _couldn't _move it.

He pressed his lips together, looking up at the roof. The side of the gutters was pulled out of its bank, swerving to the side like a snake. Somebody tried to reach it. Somebody managed to get a hold of it for a second before plummeting down. The cold water poured into the half pipe, overflowing the edge. The drops seeped down, more than a few hitting the Sniper's boots. The narrow steel channel failed to save him, and was now mocking.

The Spy took one deep breath, narrowing his eyes at the marksman. There were too many things he wanted to say to him. Instead, he ended up glaring at his feeble, broken frame. The Sniper spoke with a jitter in his voice, the smile on his face almost making the phrase seem light-hearted.

"I can't feel my legs," he said while the droplets of rain washed down his cheeks. "I can't move, Spook."

The Frenchman took a deep breath and looked down. This was not happening. It couldn't have been happening. In a moment, he would wake up. In a moment, he would break into short gasps and look into nothingness. His wife would wake up and ask him what was wrong. He would tell her to go back to sleep, though he wouldn't. Even that scenario seemed more acceptable than this. He could not see another person die before him, not if he wasn't coming back, not a RED. Even a Frenchman needed his allies. A backstabber he might have been, but not a heartless one; not the one to turn on his own team. All he wanted was for his teammates to be loyal as well. Not to flee from the group, not the disappoint him. And there was the Sniper, doing both.

He couldn't leave them, the Spy thought through a wave of sharp anguish. Not him.

His head lifted up with certain strain, the heavy drops of water weighted down his balaclava that soaked the water like a sponge.

"We need to get you back inside," he said flatly and the Sniper just closed his eyes.

"There's no need…"

"We need to dry you off and figure out what next…" the Spy muttered aloud, kneeling over and trying to lift Mundy up by the shoulders. "We need to do something about…"

"Spook, there's nothing to do - "

"We will figure something out! The Engineer has that robotic arm of his - !"

"He can't do anything about this, it's too much work, it's unnecessary!"

"I'll tell you what's unnecessary; lying here and waiting to die!"

"Spook, accept it. I'm done."

"You aren't," the Spy choked.

"Stop acting like there's still something to live for, we're done!"

"We aren't done!"

"Why do you think that?"

"Because we can't be!" The Spy snapped, letting go of Mundy. The Australian watched him with wide eyes as he continued; "I've put too much into this! I've seen too many die already, I can't let them win! I can't let them take this away from me, not again! Giving up means giving in! I can't accept the group is doomed, I won't!"

He watched the gun lying on the marksman's chest. It was a small Beretta pistol, the one Sarah handled. The girl must have seen him; that would explain her soaked clothes. A story began to form; a short impromptu suggestion of his mind. She must have come there, wanting to relieve the man of his pain but failed to pull the trigger herself. Was it due to shock or fright, he couldn't possibly know. He did know that the Sniper was watching the gun intently, almost challenging the Spy to take it.

The Spy stood up.

"No," he said in a hollow tone, his mouth opened slightly.

"Please," the Sniper said, desperate enough to succumb to begging. "There's nothing to do. You've put up a good fight but now it's over. You can stop pretending that it isn't affecting you."

"Who wouldn't it affect?!" The Spy spoke with newly-found vigor. "Who would sit idly by and not be affected by this?! I'm not going to shoot you, Mundy! Not when there's still the smallest chance - "

"There's isn't a smallest bleeding chance!" The man bellowed. A short period of silence ensued, during which the men watched each other with bated breath. After a loud exhale, the Sniper spoke again. "Look, I know this is hitting you hard. But the only other option is to let me suffer. Please. I've done my share of suffering. Just…" the man's eyes fell when thunder rolled through the earth, making the Spy look up in discomfort, cursing the elements. "Just… take the gun. It won't be any different from - "

"It _will_ be different!" The Spy insisted, stomping on the mud. The specks of dirt splattered over his bruised leather shoes. His fists were clenched tightly, and for the first time, he spoke with a tone of dread. "It will be different because I'll be alone! Again! I've lost my family, I've lost the love of my life, I've lost my homeland and my identity! I can't…"

He placed one ungloved hand over his mouth and shuddered. He kept it there for the longest time, the Sniper watching with understanding. A man deserved to burst like this. He really did. The hand was moved, and out came the dreaded words that the Spy wanted to keep to himself.

"I can't lose my best friend."

As soon as he said it, a veil fell over his eyes. The sheer darkness of it kept him from thinking too much, and slowly, his fingers coiled around the handle of the gun, his body guided by Mundy's words.

"Please, Spook. Don't make me live like this. Don't make me wait to die. I won't die with many regrets, and I would rather have you off me than to wait for one of those bastards to get me."

The gun was examined, safety off and loaded. One twitch would do it. It was so simple, really, and yet so difficult. His hand shook as he held it.

"That's it," the Sniper said with a hint of satisfaction. "One bullet and the pain'll go away. You're a good mate, Spook. A damn good mate. Just don't miss, alright?"

Sweat poured down the Spy's brow. One shot. One burst of blood and one eternity remembering those lifeless eyes. It would be Marseilles all over again. Once again, he was the frightened little boy, reaching out for his sister's listless, bleeding hand that lied in the road. He gulped.

"Oh God…" he spoke to himself. "Oh God," he spoke to nobody. His head craned back and he took in one deep breath before demanding his nerves to calm down. His eyes pointed back at Mundy. His arm was stretched-out and pointing at the man's eye.

"I… I never thought I'd do this… I can't… I can't let you die like a common animal." With a trembling lip, he looked down at his colleague. "If there's… anything I can do… one last thing, anything! I can't let you die like those monsters that did this to you!" He insisted. The marksman kept his eyes locked on the Spy's feeble frame. He opened his mouth and finally spoke.

"One thing, Spook."

"Yes?" The man asked with interest, lowering the weapon by an inch. The Sniper was silent for some time, before speaking up, somewhat reluctantly.

"I know, deep down, someday somebody will come here. I want them to know I was here."

The Spy's brow furrowed and he ticked his head to the right, not completely sure if he understood the demand.

"What… do you want me to do?"

With a smile, the Sniper spoke softly.

"Tell them I was here. Sort and simple. Just something to remind the world that I was _there_. I was there when the world stopped turning. Leave them to wonder who I was. You'll know what to do when it hits you."

Tears rushed the brim of Spy's eyes, but he managed a smile as thunder roared behind him.

"I always know what to do," he said, slightly conceitedly. In this moment, that statement was the farthest thing away from the truth.

A chuckle broke through the barrier of rain. The Sniper was the first to speak after that. It was so quick, all of this. And yet, it seemed like an eternity.

"Goodbye, Spook."

The Spy raised up the weapon.

"Put in a good word for me. I think I will need it."

"Will do, mate," he smiled and closed his eyes. His body stiffened, like he was expecting a very painful punch. "Will do."

The sound of the shot lingered, mixing with the Spy's gasp and the thunder. A rush of blood flew on the side of the house, the tiny drops being either washed off by the rain or clinging to the wooden boards. The gun fell out of Spy's hands. They trembled, and he had them craned upwards, as in a desperate prayer. Noticing this, his head ticked to the dark sky, crying over his loss.

It would be a long time before the Spy finally managed back into the house, where he found Sarah sitting at the dinner table.

She did not move from that spot since he had left. The cluster of rain and the scent of death were inside the house as well, even more so considering that the girl's father was in his bedroom, holding his wife's mangled corpse as his daughter curled up on the chair. Sarah's lip trembled, seeing the Spy becoming yellow with self-disgust.

"I couldn't…" she tried apologizing. "I didn't…"

"I know," the Spy said, misty-eyed, his nerves shattered. "Nobody expected you to."

Sarah let out a cry and fell back into her crossed arms. He wished he could have done that, too.

* * *

It was scratching the back of Spy's mind. The horror. The blood. The screaming and the begging. All came rushing to him, every death he ever encountered and every scream he ever heard. Most of those were from his enemies, but he felt numb to them. They meant nothing. But the screams that did matter were the ones that couldn't have been cured by the Respawn. Those clung onto him, pressing against his chest like a serpent. He paced around the house, holding his balisong and flicking it open. His featureless expression hung on the blade. He could barely look at it.

He wanted to escape. But where would he go? Wander into the darkness? That was just like him, running away at the sight of trouble. His teeth grinded and his nostrils flared. He regretted ever pulling that trigger. The mourning came to him like a rush of pure rage. What person would let their best friend die?

A traitor. A turncoat. An abomination.

With those thoughts he marched over to the door and watched it. His fists clenched and he kicked them open, still breathing heavily. He heard a voice. He could not even tell whose voice it was.

"Spy? Where are you -?"

"I'm going outside," he spoke hastily, sweating with anxiety.

"In the rain? I don't-!"

"I'm going outside to gather my thoughts; I'll be back as soon as I can, now leave."

The door slammed behind him. Again, he turned towards them and struck them with the point of his blade.

It cut the marks slowly, sounding like fingernails on a chalkboard. Bits of wood and sawdust fell on his ungloved hands. He continued to make the cuts, keeping Mundy's last words in mind. He ran and re-ran the conversation in his head, each word stinging and adding to the tightness around his chest. In the dark, he didn't know what he was doing, but his marks were almost illuminated with the red of his beating heart, and the strong yellow of his determination, flashing brighter than lightening.

He played it by ear, for once relying on his gut feeling. He saw it finished, imperfect but finished nonetheless. It was good enough. He just wanted it to be over.

The balisong clanked as he threw it against the floorboards.

His eyes red with held-in fury, he ran into the field. As on cue, thunder struck. He flailed out his arms and watched the sky that fell over him in droplets as sharp as razors.

"Go ahead!" He screamed into the empty air. "Hit me with your best shot! I'm down, I'm alone, what could you possibly take from me?!"

More thunder crashed, but instead of looking away in uneasiness, he looked straight at the source. He cursed it, bringing his face into the air that smelt of demise and copper. He was freezing, and his head was burning hot.

"What now, Lord?! What do you want from me?! I have nothing left to be taken away!"

His chests heaved and he soon did the unthinkable. He grabbed the mask covering his face, taking the edge and pulling it up. A jacket for the Soldier, a tie for Irene, his mask for the Sniper. The threads clung to his cheeks, accustomed to their shape. When he finally pulled it off, red in his sunken face, he threw it on the ground and stomped on it. He was facing the Lord now, imperfect, human, with the dark bags under his eyes and his greasy tufts of jet-black hair, his skin yellowed from malnourishment. He almost looked like a ghoul destined to roam the earth in search of a human form, acquiring one at some time and defiling it, turning it into a mess of bones, scars and saggy, unkempt clothing.

"Did you want my pride?! There! It's gone! What else do you want, Lord?! Do you want my shirt?!" He asked, pulling the threads of his collar. He ripped it off his skeletal body and threw it in a puddle of mud.

"Do you want my humanity?! That left long before I stepped outside! My sanity, too! You should have it; you should use it better than I did!"

His deep breaths then became audible, screaming. He fell on his knees, then on all fours. He hacked into the dark grass under his hands. He felt sick, as if he would vomit, but couldn't on account of him not eating in the past several days. His breaths were audible now; he pressed one muddy hand against his sunken chest.

"Do you want my heart?" He asked, pressing his hand down.

His fingers turned into sharp blades, poking his chest. He was sweating and grunting, but his fingers seemed to slide in, like through yogurt. He felt something viscous drip down his hand; it wasn't rain, but he did not have the stomach to look down and see what made the sticky mess.

"Do you want my heart?!" He repeated. "I'll give it to you if you need it so badly! Just you wait! Because you need it! Because I don't deserve it! Because… **AGH!**"

The ripping of his skin sounded like shredding a paper sheet. He pulled out his hand, bright red with blood, and clasped in it was a pulpy, veiny object, sitting quite comfortably in his hand. It felt like a small cushion against his calloused fingers, surprisingly small in size. It was clenching itself, pulsating under his touch. He watched in shock. His hand went paralyzed with fear. He tossed the thing away, but he could still hear the beating, like a single smack against the skin of a drum. He grabbed his chest, his hollow chest, feeling complete terror for the first time in his life.

He hugged his chest and fell, weeping with pain. The hole in his chest, roughly the size of the fist, seemed to be draining him of his blood, his energy and his strength.

He remained there, hopeless and alone.

Suddenly a bright ray of light fell over his eyelids.

The Spy gingerly raised his head, for a second feeling nothing but jolts of electricity rushing through his spine and out the gaping, dark hole in his chest. His mouth was crooked in an inaudible cry, his eyes were red and narrow. He gazed at the bright light with confusion, slowly lifting his limp body off the soft, watery soot. He was as steady on his feet as a newborn calf. His legs twitched when he stood, they made involuntary steps to try and help him keep his balance. When he was finally stable enough, he slouched and squinted at the bright light. It was a rich, scattered yellowish-white, with an intensity like the explosion of a supernova. The harshness of the glow did not keep. He soon uncovered his eyes.

There she stood, her silhouette glazed in a golden shimmer, revealing only the paleness of her skin and the smooth texture of her powder-blue dress. She stood straight with her arms hanging loosely by the sides of her slim body. Her head was turned towards him; he could not see her face but he could see the smooth lines of her dark voluminous bob. Her own radiance outshone the bright portal behind her. It looked as though Venus had risen again. Adrien watched her, his breath becoming fast and hard. He took one step over the ground, the foot he had taken inflicted him sharp pain that made him hiss. His legs trembled, weak at the knees. He felt like his feet had been skinned, covered with salt and then made to walk on broken glass. His jaw tightened. But one look towards the smooth feminine figure was enough to keep him walking.

"Winifred," he spoke, taking another step forward. He walked to her, quickly, impatiently. His heart, tossed in a patch of withering grass, began beating wildly. It made the straw crack and shake. The Spy felt a quickening within the hole of his chest.

When he took another step, he could see her visage; the bold, ocean-blue eyes that took in everything, including his awkward steps. He saw her alabaster skin and raven hair. The shining light fell over it like a veil of stars. His pace became faster, the blunt sensation was becoming too familiar to cause further discomfort. Numbed by the first rush of searing stabs, the following steps brought far less anguish.

The quicker he moved, the better he saw of his wife, that he presumed dead, slaughtered by those foul creatures. And now he saw her! He saw her lovely hands, her distinctive cheekbones. There was a small amount of rouge on her face, a silly attempt to better her perfection. He felt as if he had been walking for miles, to see her, to hold her, to feel the touch of her smooth hand. Seconds of walking seemed like hours, hours he wanted to spend with her. When he watched her face, he saw the face of God.

But then he came closer.

There was a cut on her lip. Her neck was bruised and smeared with patches of blue and brown. Her fine dress was tattered, even reduced to a single thread on the side of her waist. Her wrists were crusty and oozing transparent liquid, about as thick as water and smelling of plastic. The bruises and scabs coated her with a brown base, similar to the skin tone of those ugly creatures. Her tongue was swollen, droopy on the side of her mouth. It looked more like a lumpy tumor, speckled with shades of brown than a soft patch of pink Adrien had become accustomed to.

When he finally approached her, he saw a monstrous creature. The only thing that differed her from an Infected was her awareness. There was light in her eyes, a ray of hope. She was bitten by those things, possibly trampled over before the change was completed. She looked at her husband and smiled.

"Winifred," he said with an eyeful of tears; "what have those things done to you?"

And just as he was ready to put his arms around her, to comfort her and tell her that she would never be a monster to him, the woman disappeared into strips of smoke. The Spy clutched the empty air that surrounded her. The emptiness filled the gaps between his fingers, and it felt as thick as syrup. He almost screamed before he heard a familiar sound.

"She's ashamed of her scars."

The Spy looked behind him and saw another phantom of the night, curly-haired and suited in a fine violet-blue dress, the color of the garment matching the color of her frostbitten feet. Her dark eyes shifted towards the Spy, and almost immediately, he saw the side of her head covered in sticky scarlet. Her chestnut hair was clumped into lifeless tufts around the area. The blood also left small specks on her muddy face, as well as a trail over her hand.

"We all live on that world with the wounds we received on this one. They do not hurt us, but they remind us of the pain we suffered through on this Earth. Only like that can we cherish the bliss we find in death."

As the creature walked towards him in short, idle steps, the Spy could only watch with silent terror. He was looking at the girl's greasy scalp when she looked up and slid her blood-splattered hand across his face. She took up a gaze of longing and fondness.

"Look at you," she spoke softly, running her hand through his hair. "Look how tall you've gotten."

The Spy watched her with his jaw ajar. She was there; the horrific saint. The liar and a wench, an idiot and a selfish brat that did not care for him in the slightest. It was this creature to whom he had said "I hate you!" and let her depart with the sentence ringing in her ear. But she seemed lucid, somehow. She did not look like the poor martyr who gave up on her life after her lover was sent away. She looked more like the girl who… well… the girl who saved him. In a way, the person who helped him live through the war by making a pact with a certain man, a man she never even liked, but fully respected.

Her hands ran through his hair before she lowered them to his shoulders. And suddenly it was clear to him; he would not be seeing these rainy plains again. He looked towards the light.

"You don't have to worry anymore. You are safe here. So are all the people you care about. She's there, waiting for you," she spoke comfortingly. "As are your friends... or people others might consider to be friends…"

"And… what about you? What about the people you cared about?"

The girl watched his eyes, seemingly larger than before. She guessed the true meaning behind his question, and did so correctly. With a sigh, she answered.

"I'm afraid not all of my friends are there. It's… ironic," she chuckled. Her smile suddenly fell sullen, she watched her own shoulder, not wanting to be seen crying again.

"I thought he was dead. I gave up on living, thinking I would see him again."

She made a brief pause, looking at her brother. A wayward tear flew down her cheek, erasing specks of blood that reappeared as soon as the salty drop fell behind her jaw.

"I waited for him for thirty years. He never came. And you know what? I couldn't be happier. Not just because I know he lived…"

She sniffed though managed a smile. Her voice cracked as she tried to speak. And through her earthly emotions, Adrien could see something deeply human about her. She was no saint, no Madonna. But he could not call her a fallen woman, either. She closed her eyes shut, concentrating on her words.

"Not because I know he lived, but because I know he lived long enough to find his happiness… with someone else, perhaps."

She watched him with a smile, letting out a short whine. Her lip shook briefly before the girl forced herself to calm down, taking a deep breath. Her hands brushed her brother's cheeks tenderly. "I hope you were happy once, too."

Wandering spirits could cry. He always wondered. As shocked as he was by this revelation, he only managed a single nod. He was then grabbed by the wrist and led towards the shining light with no warning.

"Come along," she said, holding him tightly as if he were a child.

For a second, he could taste smoke, blood, ashes and rubble on his lips. The taste came like a distant memory that bubbled to the surface, higher and higher as he walked through the golden arch of light.

He was free, he thought while stepping into the blinding whiteness. He would no longer have to hide his fears and worries, now he had no reason to. He went inside in almost a drunken stupor, light on his feet and his eyes wide. He would not care about the past; most of it advanced into the light as well. He would not be bothered by Winifred's scars. He stepped inside, his human face flawed and ashen, yet uncovered for the spirits to see. And for the first time, it did not matter.

He was safe.

* * *

The Engineer couldn't even recognize the Spy at first. Half-naked, maskless, covered in different shades of blood. He confirmed that it was him by the mask thrown several feet away. As hard as he tried, he could not grieve over the loss of another team member. The series of tragedies was becoming too hard to keep track of. He would mourn him eventually… perhaps. He noticed one thing; the Spy died with a smile on his face.

He would be the only one.

Walking back to the base, the Engineer dragged his feet across the moist grass. The green blades stuck to the soles of his boots. He stepped on the porch's step to scrape off the grass, when he saw a crude etching on the entrance door. The wide surface was scraped, decorated with needle-thin, white letters.

_Mundy was here._

_So was Adrien._


	29. The Walk

**A/N: **Good news, everyone! This abomination has only three chapters left! _Including _this one. Happy birthday to me!

* * *

There were no more ghost towns. They even made it past those at this point. Now all they were left with were the burning grounds, the rolling tumbleweeds and an unusually bright sky, the color of magnesia. The sun seemed to magnify its intensity through the whiteness. It shone and heated the dry ground until it was close to burning hot. The air seemed to flow in smooth smoke lines, flailing around the wasteland. The pathetic little patches of grass were shriveled and turned into straw, cracking under their own weight like old bones turning into dust. Every breath the man took resulted in a loud heave, he had to close his eyes for a second not to pass out from the heat. But his eyes shot wide and the gun stayed clasped in his hand. It pointed straight into the BLU Engineer's head. The Texan was taking a piss at this point, the liquid turning into steam before it could make contact with the ground.

His brow furrowed at the Spy holding him at gunpoint. He sighed, zipping up. The BLU Spy kept his eyes locked on him.

"Are you _quite _finished?"

"We'll be back on the road in a second. Keep your pants on."

"We are behind schedule. Will you be able to fix the Medi-gun in time?"

The Texan took a step forward before stopping to take a closer look at the Spy that overpowered him, the Demoman and the Soldier in an earlier brawl. It was absolutely embarrassing; in the end, the Spy was the only one with any ammo left, despite his pitiful arsenal of weaponry. The Demoman was the one to die; his blood ran in a crimson stream. The Soldier and the Engineer stood stock-still, unable to comprehend that a Spy, of all classes, had the upper hand. All this because he knew how to distribute his bullets accordingly, instead of wasting them on the REDs that escaped with the briefcase. In a flashing strike of realization, the two lowered their weapons and proposed a truce. They now had the Spy as their leader, who led them straight out of the Queendom and into the wide road.

Luckily, the Engineer was able to reconstruct one of the vehicles left in the Hooverville. This under the constant surveillance of the BLU Spy, of course. The burnt bits of the Medi-gun were picked up from the ashes of the fallen statue, dusted off and handed to the Texan. The wounded Medic was tossed in the vehicle. The Soldier protested loudly, screaming at the traitor of the Queendom. In the end, however, he was also forced to join them. The BLU Spy turned to the telescreen briefly.

_Fare the well, my Queen. Fare thee well, and if forever. _

_Still forever, fare thee well._

He saluted the pitch black, turned on the ball of his foot and stepped into the badly battered vehicle.

Just like that, they were off.

Though the men seemed to cooperate so far, the Spy couldn't let his guard down just yet. A Soldier and an Engineer were a dangerous combination; even unarmed. _Especially _unarmed. They were getting desperate, all of them. It was brains and brawn against dubious logic, a faint track of optimism and a fistful of bullets, which could only be intimidating if always at hand. Dominic was not ready to let them out of his sight.

He repeated the question through his teeth, sweat drenching his suit and seeping down his back.

"Will you be able to fix it?"

"I will, I will! Jesus, Spook. Can't a man take a leak without the third degree?"

"Not where I'm from," he answered briskly. With a quick nod, he ordered the man to walk in front of him. The Engineer huffed, taking a step forward and dragging his feet across the heat. He wiped the sweat of his brow, still feeling the barrel of the gun watching the back of his head. The Spy did not have the luxury to lower his weapon; not just yet.

"You know," the Texan started, "you didn't have to ruin the Medi-gun any further. Fixing it would have been a nightmare on its own. Ya didn't have to burn it to a crisp."

"Why would I make your job easy for you?"

"Solidarity, for one. Humanity. Common sense, take your pick."

"You're the one to talk to me about humanity," the Spy muttered, forcing himself not to think of the heat. His mouth was dry and felt like cotton, he would soon be forced to take a sip from the water canister they brought with them. It was times like these when he truly hated being human.

The Soldier was sitting at the front, beads of sweat forming under his helmet. Despite the heat, he refused to take off his jacket. It was his last act of defiance against the Spy. He glared at the command board, now hosting a sapping device the size of a woman's fist. It prevented the Soldier from driving away in the vehicle. The Engineer sat at the wheel, knocked the sapper off with his wrench, and closed the car door.

The slam awoke the sleeping Medic. He gasped, looking around. He saw metal; he saw the hard interior of the vehicle that smelt of smoke and his own blood. He fidgeted around his seat, feeling as though he was sinking into the tattered green covers. Every injury inflicted upon him came rushing back, burning his flesh and ripping out his heart. He was too terrified to scream. He did manage to kick the seats of the two men sitting in front. A cluster of incoherent yells and taunts flew over his ears, ringing in them. He was deaf and blind to his surroundings, but he could sense the audacity of the Soldier, leaning over his seat and yelling at the Medic.

His mouth was then shut and he sunk back into his seat with a growl.

The Medic's chest rose and fell rapidly. His fingernails were clutching the back of the seat. His eyes flew on the Spy's frame. Dominic was sitting beside him, his gun pointing at the back of the Soldier's head and his teeth grinding. With the last of his strength, the Medic pushed up his glasses to the bridge of his crooked nose. The blurry image was now sharp; the Spy was looking straight at him. Luckily, the barrel of his gun was not.

When his breathing settled, he could hear the man's voice repeating his last name over and over again in a steady tone.

"Dienstag? Dienstag? Dienstag?"

The third time he posed the question, the Medic gulped. Doing so felt like sending an emblazed knife down his esophagus. He winced at the sensation. His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. The Spy watched the captive with a deadpan gaze, holding up a light-blue flask he grabbed from behind the seat. He popped the cap off and brought the tip close to his lips. He drank the substance inside without haste. He maintained eye contact with the Medic whilst doing so.

The German's fingers coiled towards the container, his mouth feeling bone dry at the moment. He hated himself for this instinctive reaction, feeling like one of Pavlov's dogs. He glared at the BLU Spy until he finally parted the flask from his mouth with one final gulp. He then handed the container over to the dehydrated RED.

Every sip burnt his mangled throat immensely, yet it was the sweetest water he had yet to drink.

The Spy nodded at the Texan, and soon, they were driving.

They couldn't have been driving for more than a couple of seconds before the Spy yanked the flask away. The man almost whimpered when the precious water was taken away from him. But doing this grabbed his attention, and the BLU needed his undivided attention more than anything else.

"You are alright. You are safe, for now. We are out of the Queendom," he began explaining. The captive had too many questions. His mouth parted slightly.

"Do not attempt to speak," the Spy instructed firmly. "We have done a number on your throat. I suggest you refrain from all strenuous activities until we get your Medi-gun fixed."

His eyes flickered to the Texan's beck. His shirt was drenched with sweat, the fabric becoming darker by the second.

"I hope that will be soon."

The German managed to sit up straight, chaos still running through his head. He looked out of the dusty window and into the field of nothingness. There was no life in these parts; not a single shrubbery. There were no animals; there haven't been any in weeks. There was nothing, and yet in the distance, he could see an odd, winged, silhouette of a creature, looking like a bird or a flying reptile. The heat must have been playing tricks on him. He shook his head, his eyes closed shut. His neck cracked while he moved it.

"Dienstag," Dominic said sternly, and this made the man look back. There was something about the way he spoke that he found comforting, for some unexplainable reason. He was still wary of the other two; the Engineer and the Soldier the man was pointing his weapon at.

"Do you know where we're going?"

The Medic kept still for one brief moment before slowly rocking his head sideways. Dominic only nodded at him.

"We should be there in a couple of hours… if your theory is true. There is a possibility of there being an old military hangar, and maybe with the Engineer's expertise, we can get one of the planes to function properly. That is, if your theory is true."

The Medic's eyes went wide.

"U… Uk-!" He started, but was startled by the sound of his croaky voice, coming through inches of scabby, sliced flesh. He grabbed his neck in fear of his head falling off with pain.

"Don't speak." The Spy suddenly took on a small smile. It faded away within a second, but it was enough for the Medic to see it. It was more than enough to give him hope. Would they…? Should they?

The Spy said nothing else, only craning his head to the two sitting in the front. He switched the gun in his other hand, the flask filled with lukewarm water placed behind his back. And suddenly, things were beginning to look up. The Medic smiled, his lip trembling. He looked up into the bright sky. He wanted to scream. He wanted to open the window and stick his head out. He wanted to scream in the distance whilst feeling the warm air current on his skin.

He did just that.

"Get your head back in you miserable-!" The Soldier started but was curtly dismissed by the Spy.

"Let him. And keep your head straight."

The Soldier huffed and turned his head, facing the dusty road. Meanwhile, the Medic was watching the fields, looking straight at the future. It was within reach, he could practically grab it. He closed his eyes, and suddenly, he saw his lovely wife, he saw the beautiful life prior to the New Plague. And then, he saw the life he could have in Ukraine, in its lush forests, pristine plains and civilization at last!

_We did it! _He screamed in his head, but the only sound that escaped his throat was a hoarse, horrid screech, resembling an exhale. _We did it, Natasha! We did it, baby!_

Dominic allowed himself one last look at the man. Ukraine must have been his Patria. If he were returning to her, Dominic would have been the same way. His young, caramel-haired, idealistic, patriotic core chuckled with delight. His steely façade remained unmoved.

_We did it, baby! I'm coming! I'm home! I'm coming home and I'm free!_

_I'm free…_

Tears flew down his cheeks, evaporating in the heat almost instantly. The captive was driving across the state, into the vast unknown. And somewhere, hidden in that unknown, there was the possibility of salvation. And the fact that, after all this, salvation was _just_ a possibility, made him sob.

_I'm free._

_Free and what now?_

* * *

_Now we put the knives away._

_Clink!_

Sarah watched the kitchen knife fall on the floor, next to the others. About a dozen of them lay beneath her feet; she was throwing them out of the drawers. It was a plethora of blades; both dull and sharp. Some had shiny, polished surfaces, others were matte. They all showed a bit of color on the sides of their blades. Sarah could see the smooth lines on her face. There was no smile resting on it; she had not smiled in weeks. Her eyes were turning into murky pools that took in light, but did not let it escape them. Her face was pale, her hair greasy; and even her mind had become soiled lately. She hated these knives. She dropped them on the floor, one by one.

_Clink!_

Look at them. They can't hurt if they're beneath her, could they? They were dangerous when they were hanging above her head, in her mother's grasp. She could still smell Irene's blood on her cheek.

Her hand ran over her moist face. Sometimes, she could still feel the crumby sensation of the mother's dried-up blood.

The drawer was empty.

She opened the next one.

She rattled it vigorously, her face forming a frown. She tugged at the drawer handle with both her hands, grunting. Every movement stressed her muscles, and she loathed the drawer from being shut tight.

When she finally flung it open, a couple of sharp forks and small cutting knives flew outside in a waterfall of metal and reflections. Her face flashed before her eyes, flying in mid-air, mocking for a second, wanting her dead. She saw her sickly, pasty, ailment-ridden skin that she hated. She took those antibiotics religiously, and all they've done was made her feel worse. Her teeth were sore, too. That did not happen before.

After the mocking reflections fell on the floor, she stared at the mosaic they've made. None of them could hurt her now. None of them. And yet, they were lurking under her feet, ready to fly at her and strike her in the stomach.

Hearing her father's hurried footsteps, she looked through the barricaded window. A speck of bright light fell from the small opening within the wooden boards and onto the countertop. Her finger hovered above the small circle of light; her nail seemed to shine. She missed the sunshine.

The Engineer ran inside the kitchen. We should call him Dell from now on; his title meant nothing at the time. After all, the people who called him that were no more.

Dell was a mess from head to toe. His overalls were tattered and covered with blood and dirt; he had recently found the strength to give his wife a burial but did not have enough to wash his clothes afterwards. His chest, forearms and face were covered with uneven brown stains. His helmet was off and showing his bald scalp that looked almost polished. His goggles were on top of it, and Sarah could see into her father's eyes. They were aware but tired, floating above deep, dark circles. His cheeks were sunken into his five o'clock shadow. It was like his face was stained with dark ink. Crow's feet decorated the centre of the corner of his eyes, stretching well behind his head. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days; even though the truth was that he did not sleep in almost a week. When he finally spoke, taking a weak step towards his daughter, his voice ran like bricks through a blender.

He watched the knives surrounding her feet.

"What happened?"

The girl said nothing, simply looking into the small speck of sunlight resting on the flat surface. The man rubbed his moist neck, his hand rolling at the back. He slowly picked up a couple of knives and put them on the counter; out of Sarah's vision.

"Shit, Sarah," he said, unable to censor himself. The girl did not notice his swearing that once cost him a full dime in the swear jar. It really did not matter at this point.

What mattered was the outside.

She leaned towards the window, squinting at the small hole in the wood. She listened to the chiming and clacking of knives while they rubbed and clashed together. Her father hissed at one point, cutting himself accidentally. She did not look his way. Instead, she continued to watch the very limited view. She saw dirt, dry patches of xanthic grass and the burnt remains of the tool shed the Scout had lost his mind in. And she knew that beyond the wreckage of her base, there was the wreckage of her world. All the men of RED were buried somewhere, outside. A horde of Infected was out somewhere, walking their way. Danger and tragedy awaited her on the outside, and yet she wanted to go there so badly.

She turned to her father, still maintaining her apathetic look of both exhaustion and disinterest. Her father caught her gaze, putting away the last knife.

"Daddy?" She spoke softly. "I want to go for a walk."

The man stood straight. "A walk?"

The girl did nothing, turning her stare her longing, almost begging glare. Dell craned his neck around his shoulders, hearing it crack for a second. He returned it to its place.

"I… I don't think you should be goin' out, Sarah. You're still sick, ya know?"

She only blinked at the statement, and her response was automatic, with less life and vigor that if said by a corpse.

"I want to go for a walk."

The man blinked heavily, looking at the window. He felt the sun's unforgiving heat on his back, the kind he felt while scooping the dirt from the dry ground and putting his wife's listless body inside. Her limbs fell over her bloody torso; her wounds were filled up with the soot. The sun only stood and watched. It burnt him inside and out, and this is why he wanted to stay here, where it couldn't reach him and remind him of his loss.

"I want to go for a walk." Sarah looked at her dirty sneakers, her toes touching. "Just a little one. I just… I just want to be warm again."

The last flash of warmth she felt was when droplets of Irene's blood sprayed her face.

Dell watched his daughter, finally acquiring the will to approach her, take her in his arms. She was cradled in them like a bride, her head falling over his shoulder. Her mouth was slightly parted and she shivered on his skin.

One walk.

If that was all she truly wanted, he would oblige. He swallowed the heavy node in his throat and moved towards the door, muttering a simply _alright _as he stepped out.

Sarah caught a glimpse of the kitchen knives that lay on the counter. She managed a victorious smile. Those evil things couldn't harm her now.

They became smaller and smaller whilst she was leaving the kitchen, and then disappeared when the door slammed behind them.

* * *

It really wasn't as hot as he had expected it to be. Maybe he didn't feel it yet. But his daughter did, her head lulled back and forth and her eyes were closed in satisfaction. He carried her on his back, the girl being too fatigued to walk over the sand and hay. Her legs kicked his sides as they flailed with each step he made, but he paid no mind. The girl was grabbing his shoulders loosely, and he had to prop her up on his back for fear of sliding off. He looked around the plain; besides the barren trees, the run-down shacks and the pathetic excuse for a garden, little could be seen here. They were still quite far away from the river bank, but none of them minded. The girl was just glad she was in the sun.

They seemed to walk for hours, though in reality, it had been twenty minutes. And then, the girl spoke into Dell's ear.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you put me down?"

"Why? You uncomfortable?" He asked through his heavy breathing.

"I'm… tired."

"Oh," the man said with some confusion before allowing her feet to touch the ground. "Okay then."

The girl found her stability on her feet at first, and then sat on the dry ground. Her dad watched her sit down before descending to accompany her. He looked around the field and he found his eyes stopping upon every erect board that marked the grave of his departed colleagues, and the helmet above his wife's. The air was still and almost rancid. The coppery scent was coming from his clothes, and he found himself repelled by it. He withheld a grimace when he felt Sarah's head on his arm. She closed her eyes and hummed to herself. His eyes then met the zenith.

"Daddy?" She said through her dry throat.

"Yeah?"

"I couldn't do it."

The man watched the top of her head.

"Couldn't do what?"

"I couldn't shoot Snipes," she said quietly, wiping her nose against her forearm before dropping her hand by her side. "I came out of the house, and there he was. And he asked me to shoot him. But I couldn't. Every time I killed somebody, I ended up not caring for him. And I wanted to care for him some more, ya know? I wanted to feel sorry when he died."

The man stiffened his lip in discomfort. "Why didja…" he couched to clear his throat, "why didja care for him so much?"

The girl did not move. If she had the energy to, she would have shrugged.

"I… I don't know. He was a fun guy, ya know? He called me Jellybean. He taught me to shoot like a professional."

Dell put his heavy arm around her fragile frame. She continued to speak.

"I know you didn't like him… but he was alright, really. You shouldn't have kicked him out."

The man nodded, more to himself. He regretted kicking him out of the house, even though he found his reaction understandable at the time. But the rules were different in this apocalypse. All of those inner conflicts should have been resolved differently. This was not the real world anymore. It was war, and no one seemed to realize it. All their mistakes derived from there, and he regretted every one.

At times, he even regretted bringing his child into the base. If she had stayed in Bee Cave, he wouldn't have had to watch her suffer through the loss of her mother, or through her illness. There was no telling if she would have been any safer there, but she would have been out of his sight. He would die himself one day, and if he heard that she had died before him, he would have comforted himself by believing that she had died peacefully, if that was even possible. It was a universe full of w_oulda_s_, shoulda_s and_ coulda_s_. _And yet he found refuge in it.

She laid there beside him, leaning on her dad while falling to sleep, her breath bated. She looked peaceful like that; the man did not want to disturb her. But when the corner of his eye met a small pile of rocks that was once their first lit campfire, he had to talk with an air of fondness.

"Remember when we first got here Sarah? I was too busy building stuff to settle down properly, but you girls managed to join the team nicely. I mean, some fellas started to get accustomed to you when the drive here ended. I know… I know most folks didn't really have anything against you. I wasn't so sure at first, but then we sat down at the campfire, and you sang, and I dunno what triggered it but I just_ knew _the guys would get to like ya."

The girl chuckled into his shirt. The man's gaze grew softer, still looking at the world around him. It was a world that was crumbling before him.

"You know, I…" he started again, "I never really thought about it, but I was really busy when we came here. I worked my butt off to make this place safe for you girls. I fixed the sentries, then I fixed the filtration system…" He ticked off his obligations on his gloved hand before realizing that there weren't that many to count. He put his hand away. "Anyway, I know I wasn't around enough for ya, but that don't mean I wasn't there. I mean, I was! Really! I wanted you safe, and I wanted to do it myself. I wanted you two to be alright, because you're the only two I cared about enough to die for. And I… I couldn't stand to see you die before me. So I ended up runnin' around, fixin' stuff and I never even…"

He stopped his babbling and sighed. A pained expression painted over his ashen face.

"… I've never really been a father to ya. I guess it's no wonder you preferred Snipes over me. I mean, he's the one who taught you how to defend yourself, not me. He's the one who acted like a dad. It's… it's no wonder you ran to him when Irene died."

The last sentence felt like a gunshot to the heart. The girl said nothing. This shot a small, abrupt wave of grief over the man's spine. He turned to Sarah and spoke again.

"The point is… I never meant to abandon you. I guess I couldn't protect you and show you that I wanted to protect you at the same time. Either that or I just never really tried to. But I want you to know that I always loved you, Sarah. You and your mom. I always loved you, and nothin's gonna change that. And I only wanted you to know that. I'll do anything I can for you. I… I'm sorry I didn't make that clear earlier."

His lip quivered and he rubbed his eyes. Rubbing the moistness over his index finger, he took a deep breath and looked into the graves of his colleagues. There was a certain dread in the air, an odd feeling that he couldn't quite explain. And it only intensified when he listened to the empty air with still breath and realized that he really couldn't hear anything.

His head leaned down.

"S - … Sarah?"

The girl gave no response.

The man cupped her face and then noticed that he mouth went slack, and her eyes were parted only slightly, showing only two white streaks of white.

"Come on, Sarah," he said through an almost insane chuckle. His voice cracked with desperation. "Wake up, sweetie. Y – you gotta…" he choked, "You gotta wake up!"

But she didn't.

And then he found a frightening thought flash before his eyes; what if she did not hear his confession? What if the last words dedicated to her, his words of love and care, were lost in the putrid air? His body shook when he grabbed her, stroking her greasy hair and kissing her forehead, hoping that this would bring her back. He held her tightly, his hands running down her back, trying to keep her warm, at least. But her body grew colder, her face was becoming gray, and the sun still stood at zenith, mocking him with its penetrative rays. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to keep her alive.

But now, it was clear to him that he had failed.

He cried out her name loudly, into the iron sky, and then several times into her head. None of those screams or whispers could bring her back to him. Her body felt ice-cold, her limbs went limp. He couldn't think about anything at the time. His stomach churned, he closed his eyes and begged God that he was playing some cruel joke on him. He prayed that he would wake up in his bed, in his hometown, and that he could see her big, innocent eyes alerting him that breakfast was ready and waiting for him.

But no prayer could bring back the light in her eyes. No plea could save him from the gut-wrenching feeling that he had become a failure. And there he was; a genius, a prodigy, a monster, a terrible father, a disappointment.

What good were his machines when the man behind them was incompetent?

He sobbed into her locks, his nose picking up the faintest scent of Johnson's baby shampoo. Wicked images flashed before him; Sarah on the day of her baptism, running to the sound of the school bell on her first day of elementary school, riding her bike with her friends, running around the house reading her sister's diary aloud… These images once comforted him when he was at RED, when he was simply away from home. But now they brought nothing but pain, when he finally came to turns that he had literally nothing left to live for.

And then he heard her voice again. It was more like reminiscence, she even sounded younger. But there it was, the same Texan brogue, the same high-pitched nuance that she was at times ashamed of. But her request was there, as clear as a bell and it even left his ears ringing.

_"When I die, I want to be put under a tree, just like this one. No casket, no dirt, nothing. I just wanna be put under a tree. I want it to be a tree just like this, daddy."_

His eyes widened and he stopped rocking her body in his arms.

_"I want it to be a willow."_

Looking over the plain, it was clear that the nearest willow would be miles from there.

His brow furrowed with determination.


	30. The Willow

It took him almost a full day to half-drag, half-limp his way across the plain, over the small river and to the willow tree. He cursed the elements under his breath as he passed through the dust. The sun shone upon his face with endless wrath, gravity weighed down his body until he was barely able to stand up straight. Still, he continued to walk on, huffing and clenching his teeth in misery and determination. Sarah was in his arms, her limbs flailing as those of a ragdoll. Her mouth was opened slightly, and Dell could see her pinkish tongue and yellowed teeth. Her face was no longer blemished. Instead, it took upon itself the color of paper. Her hair was flat, dry like the sward that cracked from under his heavy boots. He moved an inch at a time, his daughter in his arms and his supplies strapped on his back. With the burden of the heat and gravity that fell on him like an avalanche, and the deep grief that crushed his spirit, his already short frame was reduced to the size of a pitiful ant, cowering before God. And he defied Him, trying to prove that he would no longer be controlled by his disposition. If this was his demise, he would go down triumphantly. He would prove once and for all that he was a leader, that he would fulfill a promise, not only to Sarah but to himself.

And through his stiff, clenched teeth, feeling each one of his muscles aching he pushed through the putrid barricade of still air. He stopped near the coveted willow, looking up into its crown. The sun had already begun to set behind its withered leaves and thin branches, but this only made his goal look more spectacular. With one quick jerk of his shoulders, he dropped his harnessed scrap metal and supplies. They clanked on the ground and scattered. He felt as though his skeleton had become free of his shackles. Slowly, he lowered Sarah's listless body down to the foot of the tree. She was seated, her head leaning on her shoulder. One of her pale arms fell over her flat stomach. He did not bother to move it from her. She always looked like this when she fell asleep on the couch, during a car ride and so on. She looked calmer now than she did when he watched her with horror, showering her with quick pecks and rocking her frail body in his arms. There, she was a corpse. Here, she was a sleeping little girl.

He watched her for as long as he could have possibly allowed himself. His task was to bring her here. His task was done. But being a father was not a job that had to be done in tasks. If a father did something for his baby, he couldn't just walk away. He had to stay and make sure his kept promise stuck. It was his task to keep her safe until the end. He turned his head towards the scrap metal, the blueprints and the tools he needed. He kneeled, grabbing a fistful of supplies and a wrench.

And then the building began.

Bolts and screws flew across the air, swears and impatient grunts escaped the man. First came up a dispenser, then two sentries. The mechanism ticked and moved smoothly. Under any other circumstance, he would have admired his work. But today, there was no time for pride. The only thing he demanded from his machines was perfection. He set them apart, two sentries guarding the front of the tree, one the back. Through the ruckus, Sarah was lying at its base, her eyes shut and her fingers curled up. Dell allowed himself to think that she was dreaming for the time being. Imagining that she still had a chance made him work harder, faster. He might have been only fooling himself, but it was that exact self-deception that made him able to fight off the BLUs and their wretched Queen.

_Do it for her._

_Whatever it may take._

The command set itself into the woodwork of his mind. Proving himself was no longer an option. It was a duty.

He upgraded the sentry guns and let the dispenser run at maximum capacity. The fine red energy soothed him, healing his minor wounds. It did not make him any less tired or hungry, but the placebo effect of the bright red color that streamed around him gave him strength. This would be his final battle, the one he had to win. Those things were attracted to blood and flesh, leaving a body out in the open like this only meant an imminent attack. He had to win this round. He had to do it; for his family, for his friends, if nothing, as bare proof that humanity can prevail over the odds, even in such small numbers. He would have done anything to keep her safe. And he was; running amok and building all those machines only to watch them break down and allow those Infected to harm his group. Meanwhile, he overlooked the team's actual members. It was too late to look back now, but the least he could do was finish the job. If machines were his prime and only defense method, he would use it. With that thought in mind, he smacked the last sentry with his wrench, and it sprung to life.

Breathing heavily, through his teeth, he took out his shotgun and watched into the distance. The sun had set; barely anything could be seen in the darkness. Normally, he would have sat down and waited for his machines to do the dirty work. But this time, it was personal. If those creatures came, he would flash his teeth at them and watch them die. Every Infected that fell would be only one stone in the foundation he was setting for his kind. Human will live on. And if mowing down those creatures would improve the people's odds, so God help him, he'd do it.

Almost on cue, he could hear the horde marching through to them. They trampled over the ground and through the bloody water, some falling face-down into the liquid and drowning. The idiots…

Dell closed his eyes and craned his head back, leaning on his buzzing, whirring contraption. His eyes shot wide open as he looked at the contoured image of his daughter's frame.

"Don't worry, Sarah," he said through uneven breathing. "Daddy'll take care of 'em. Daddy'll do good."

He had two promises to keep. One was to Sarah and the other to the world.

"Hey!" Dell shouted into the distance, and his low-key voice still boomed through the emptiness. "Come out you disgusting, Infected bastards!"

That one bellow left him shaken, more so because he felt them approaching. Now they had an audible target. It wasn't long before they appeared as small dots on the dark ground. Those spots compressed and shifted into shapeless frames that limped towards the base; the tree. It was the first time the man had ever defended a tree, and the first time he defended anything with such grit. He glared at the blobs, approaching them ineptly. The front lines fell and spread like dust across the hind waves of the Infected, trampling its own. Those creatures had no sense of comradery, they knew nothing of mercy, and the mere concept of team organization was odd and unusual to them. The horde ran over and destroyed anyone too weak to escape them.

Dell was not escaping.

The rockets flew across the sky and hit the middle of the cluttered horde. What it was left with was a hole in the middle; a hole quickly filled as the Infected scum pushed together. They made way towards the human, clutching his heated machine. His brow furrowed, beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. The fell down his thick eyebrows and rolled down his cheeks. He wiped off the moisture and put his hand on the warm contraption, buzzing as it made a couple more shots.

The Infected fell in uneven waves. Their red eyes showed no life. If there had been a human trapped in those awful, blackened, rotting shells, the human was shouting for joy as its captive body crumbled. The Engineer stood by at first, watching the relentless horde scramble towards them. When the Infected came too close, he cocked up his shotgun and began firing. He grasped onto it tightly, not firing precisely but shooting them down nonetheless.

The first one had its head shot; its brains flew out of the back of its head and hit the Infected behind him. The others showed no reaction; albeit licking their lips.

Cannibals! He won't be losing to cannibals today.

Some Infected even managed to claw at the bulky machinery, roaring and foaming at the mouth. But they were all shot like mangy dogs. Every bullet had its purpose, and Dell dedicated every shot to a dearly departed.

"This is for Sarah!" He shouted, piercing an Infected stomach. It screamed and fell on the ground, clutching its intestines. Even his blood was vile and green; there was nothing human about those things.

"This is for Irene!"

The shot flew into a creature's hip. It did not kill him instantly, but it did cause it to fall, leaving others to tread over him like a rug. Even through the havoc, Dell could hear the creature's bones breaking, like those of a chicken.

Another rocket flew through the crowd and liberated Dell from dealing with a dozen creatures.

"That one's for Sol!" He cried, grabbing his wrench and climbing one of his machines. He lifted up his human arm and smacked a hissing abomination over the head with it. It viscous blood flew into his eyes. He blinked it away as he was clobbering the scum beneath him. Not one reached Sarah yet. "And this one's for the Demoman!"

And the shots were lining up; one for the Sniper, right in the spine. The one for the Spy went straight into the heart. One for his mother, for his father and his freedom, and then he gave one for Pepper, the bullet that went through an Infected's temple. And when the attackers' brigade had begun to thin and scatter, a hot scrap of metal fell on a dry patch of sward. It ignited the clothes of a few Infected standing on it. They ran, screeching like hawks. Their arms flailed above their heads in mindless panic before they fell, leaving the flames to engulf them. They burnt out like candles.

"And that one's for the Scout," Dell said, silently now, struggling to maintain his breath.

His eyes flew open as an Infected tried to strike him. He evaded the attack by the skin of his teeth, moving his head back and watching the base of the creature's palm. He then smacked him with his wrench against its neck. The creature emitted an unpleasant, gurgling sound as it descended. Dell hopped off the sentry and took a couple of steps back towards his daughter. His steps were light, almost like he was trying not to wake her.

"It's okay, baby," he said under his breath, not looking at her. "Daddy's right here. Daddy'll take care of 'em. I'll take care of 'em good."

His shotgun was reloaded. The stubborn Infected still came closer, but they were in fewer numbers; the hundreds now came into dozens, and Dell could finally see the end of this debacle. Just thirty more and he'll lower his weapon. Just thirty more and he'll sit next to his daughter, knowing that he did something well for once in his life. His machines buzzed, spun and mowed them down. Every struck Infected fell with a silent scream, their eyes bulging out of their eye sockets and their mouths stretched wide. The Texan could almost smell their foul breath that ran across the air. The man's muscles tightened. He looked at the graveyard of lost souls; clattered mounds of flesh and tattered fabric. It reminded him of those Auschwitz photographs they ran in various magazines when he was a child. They were nothing but worthless beings with no names, no importance and pathetic, stick-figure bodies that barely supported the clothes they wore. If he didn't truly despise them, he would have felt sorry for them.

And then, the unthinkable happened. The Infected fell.

Not due to the strength of Dell's sentry gun. The contraption was crushed as well. The man stood with his mouth agape, a few feet away from being pulverized himself. Two crane-like figures, which looked as if they were made of wood, flew right over the Infected. The claws knocked them down with great force. Some were impaled on the steely, ink-colored claws. Their heads became stuck between the large vulture's fingers, and their bodies dangled briefly as they were raised up. The monster's knuckles pushed the sentry, and it crushed. The crumpling of metal sounded like scrunching up printing paper, and it sent shivers down Dell's spine. His heart began racing, his teeth clenched and chattered. He took another step back, his shotgun still at the ready.

And then, the creature flew up.

It was a terrifying pterodactyl-like giant flew above him, staring at the pitiful human with its beady, black eyes. The creature had whooshed in with such grace, and was now hovering above the Texan, stretching out its massive, fifty-foot wings that covered the night sky. He could see the veins stretched across the skin; as dense and light as the etchings on the skin of a peeled cherry. Its skin was scaly and peeling off, its beak embroidered and decked with sharp, razor-like teeth. Its screech was one nuance away from being inaudible. It head craned back as it shrieked, flapping its massive wings. The wind they produced moved the frail branches of the willow the Texan was standing in front of. He managed to stay on his feet, feeling the wind remove the skin off his bones. He glared at the unholy creature, which seemed to have a slim figure on its back; a lump adorned with black leather; a few clumps of fiery red hair that twisted in the air. Even the shapeless lump wanted him dead.

The man took a deep breath, his lips tightening. Raising his weapon and pointing it at the still creature, he managed through a deep, low growl.

"Not my daughter, you son-of-a-bitch."

The bullet flew into the monstrosity. It shrieked in pain, the shapeless lump tightened the brown harness that held its body. It moved with the motion, flying back as blood trickled down its torso in one thin line. It filled the ridges of its skin and dyed it a hot scarlet. It then charged towards the Texan, diving into him. The man jumped and felt the creature's wing hitting him. It sent him flying, he screamed before he hit the cold ground, face first. The air current produced made Sarah's body topple over. She lay on her side; her arm fell beside her head.

The creature flew straight into the dispenser. It disappeared in a ball of smoke and fire. The terror-dactyl whooshed up into the air, its body straighter than an arrow. It screeched in a victorious cry. Its head soon turned back.

"Is that all you've got?"

The Texan had trouble standing straight, but he stood stoically, facing the beast. His vision was blurry but his eyes were sharp and watched the challenge before him. He wiped off some blood that trickled down his bottom lip, the coppery smell faint on the palm of his hand. And right there, the Texan challenged the beast. Evolution has come this far, he could surely destroy the creature. At the very least, he could resist it.

The beast flew above the statue of a man. For a second, the terror-dactyl watched its back, awaiting its master's commands. It looked to the small blob on its back, which only gave a curt nod and demanded the pet to launch forward. If prehistoric flying reptiles could grin, this one did.

The dragon-like fiend swooped towards the Texan, flying head-first. Inches away from Dell, the fiend felt a sharp, metallic pain in its beak. The man had struck it with his wrench, hidden in the palm of his hand. It rang a foul, dinging ring. The man himself was unaware of his strength, feeling his fingers tighten around the metal in a surge of sweet agony that was beating his enemy. The terror-dactyl screeched again, but was soon brought up by its commander.

Bullets rained on its flesh, punctured its hard skin, and left holes and crimson trails that slid down the greasy surface of the creature's chest. With a look of determination and a will to please its master, the beast dived down and met the Texan's chest with its sharp claws. It ripped his clothes and the surface of his skin, leaving the man screaming in anguish. The veins on his neck tightened as his face grew red. He felt as though his organs were spilling out of the four cuts stretching across his abdomen. His breath was heavy and forced, the only thing that he could see was the creature; rising up its legs and hovering above him. It would strike again and pin his down on the ground, leaving him to bleed out.

It could have moved a millimeter or it could have pierced right through him, it was the last thing that mattered. Dell pointed his shotgun at the beast's neck and fired. The withdrawal of his weapon made him flinch, and he shimmied on his back towards his daughter's cold body, all while watching the beast squawk and move its head, exposing its already wounded neck to the bullets of the remaining sentries. Whilst the mayhem took place, Dell's eyes shot over to the destroyed dispenser. His hard work and strive for perfection was reduced to a scrunched-up pile of sheet metal. It was so easy for this animal to destroy which the human had worked so hard to create.

And the creature still continued to fumble around the willow, destroying the remaining sentries as its heavy, vascular wings knocked them over. The man's work fell like a shabbily built wall.

Every impact with the sharp, massive weapons cut the creature's skin and made it bleed. It felt the heavy harnesses of its master pulling it, guiding it towards the miserable old man. They tugged, jerked, yanked and held it wrapped. But there was only so much the animal could take before it fell over, screaming in agony.

First came down its torso, then the head crashed on the ground. Its eyes were still opened, even when it died on impact. They gave out nothing but failure and complete shame. It wept for its master, cursing itself for betraying her.

She now laid with her legs and spirit crushed under her own creation.

But more than anything, she was crushed by her own realization. Her army was destroyed, along with her precious pets. The world was her canvas, and what was supposed to be a masterpiece turned into a fiasco.

And who was she defeated by?

A man.

An old man.

Her old man.

Thunder struck in the distance while the man watched the sight, breathless. His head turned from left to right, searching for something. And then he saw it; his daughter's head, resting on the ground. He scooted over to her, still shivering and weary from the loss of blood. He placed her body into his hands and pressed her against his warm, bloody body.

He was all alone in the valley of the dead.

"Sarah…" he tried to speak his final words, but darkness fell over his eyes, all his senses went numb. He leaned on the trunk of the tree, a smile stretching over his face. He had fulfilled a promise he made years ago.

"Daddy did good, Sarah," he said, more to himself than to her. But in his mind, she was smiling back. There were many people that grew to loathe him during his life; his own daughter included. But never this girl. She had the grounds to, but in the end…

Another flash of pain shot through the man's heart. The blood was flowing freely, but with every shed drop, he could feel nothing but relief. Now he was allowed to make mistakes, knowing that he wouldn't disappoint anybody. Who could he have disappointed at this point? He had fulfilled his dream, he lived long enough to see these bastards die, all of them.

Only he didn't know it at the time.

He lived _just _long enough.

He held his little girl's body tightly, like she would break if he let go of her. He had already made that mistake once. He let her out of his sight. He vowed never to abandon her again. His lips pressed themselves into her wiry hair, and he stayed there, like that, for an eternity.

Once again, they were alone in the world. Once again, a father, a daughter, a babbling brook, the older daughter thinking of life, not too far away from the two. He could almost see the warmth on his skin, which could have either been the heaven's light or the October sun that fondled them all those years ago.

Honestly, it was the same. In the end, paradise was here.

"Daddy… did good."

He spoke with his last breath, into the girl's hair.

Synestra heard him through the thunder.

Whilst her father died with his daughter in his embrace, the creature's master relived her life, one mistake at a time. Was becoming Synestra her grave mistake? Or was her error disobeying Graveline? Was it this pointless delusion of world domination? Nobody could own the world, she mused.

And while she slipped into a whirring darkness, she could only hope that her sinful soul could relive one last moment of bliss. Her mind ran in a panic, reaching the last moment in her life when she ever felt truly happy, at peace with herself and the world that needn't be controlled.

She clutched the crocodile tooth necklace around her neck and prayed.

She prayed her death would be quick and as merciless as possible.

* * *

The second part of this narrative takes place roughly fifteen years after the Texan's death. Seasons changed and the elements tormented the corpse's flesh, heating it to the point of boiling or washing it away like mud. The heavy rain and snow that interchanged during the following months did the same to the flesh of the large, winged monster and its penitential master. The redhead became a rancid heap of brisk, crawling maggots and decaying red flesh. The two Texans by the tree decomposed in a way that was cleaner, somehow. By what Synestra had seen, most of the worms and weevils attacked her body; her pet and her listless legs. She fed on them for some time before finding that her miserable organism needed no nutrition.

By the time their death hit the fifteen year mark, their bodies were discovered.

The explorer found them after searching their home for some time. She found very little; a van covered with moss and slowly consumed by the undergrowth, bloody sheets upstairs, very little ammunition and a couple of magazines, a few plastic bags under the floorboards filled with a vinegar-like substance, and most of the home's original furniture.

The one thing that stood out was the inscription on the heavy door.

_Mundy was here._

_So was Adrien._

So she wondered. Who was Mundy? Why was he here? Who was Adrien? What was the relationship between the two? What was this run-down lean-to to them?

The inscription fulfilled its purpose.

She thought about it up until she stepped into a long chain of bones that was once a great bird's fearsome tail. Looking up from her legs, the girl saw a small maze of bones; a cage that was formed by the creature's ribs, the wide gaping beak. She clutched her stomach and averted her eyes towards a heap of clothing, bloody and tattered. Those must have been the Infected, she knew. Their bones turned into dirt. Dom told her that.

But the one thing that grabbed her attention was the connection between the two skeletons by the bank of an old, withered willow, whose branches were barren and whose core was overrun by beetles and termites. The investigator moved closer to them.

There was still some fabric left on the smaller form; a bluish cotton that covered the ribs and old, tattered sneakers that were open at the toes. They have been filled with dirt and small insects. The investigator had to hold her nose, the smell of rotten eggs and methane everpresent, even if the bodies had decayed a long time ago. The smaller form was wrapped by a larger, hulking frame. There was a hunch on his back, and she could guess that the person who wielded those bones wasn't much taller than the other skeleton.

All of his bones were intact, even glistening with a pearly white glow. He looked like the finest, sturdiest museum specimen, perfectly preserved as though his flesh had simply evaporated in the hot desert sun. He did not seem so badly beaten and brownish as the smaller frame.

And yet, as soon as the discoverer tried to pry the two away to take a closer look, the man's bones fell to dust.


	31. The End

**A/N: **Do any of you know that one scene in Final Fantasy X when Yuna exits The Chamber of the Fayth in Besaid Temple, the Hymn of the Fayth enhances behind her and she can't even stand on her feet whilst she stands at the top of the stairs, her head lulling to and fro and taking small, tentative steps down the staircase as everyone watches her in awe and concern, and at one point she even falls and is grabbed at the last minute by her guardian, Kimahri Ronso, and all of her guardians gasp, and then she stand up and brushes her light brown hair off her sweaty face, and the light shines behind her, making her look like an exhausted goddess returning from battle, and she smiles meekly at her companions, announcing proudly that she had become a summoner, and she's truly happy because even despite her exhaustion, she knows that she was able to achieve something not many people could before her?

That's how I feel right now.

* * *

_Chernobyl, 1986_

The blast was as white as burning magnesia. Dominic had trouble seeing for a while after that. The only sensory image that stuck with him was the dream he had seconds before the blast, and the record playing in the distance, the needle puncturing the continuity of the song and repeating its cut-off verse. Though the thunderous blast was deafening, the man kept hearing the ringing voice that sung to him, a feisty young nymph stroking his cheeks. It was a memory relived, but as she sung those idle words, the town around him crumbled and was reduced to a white vertigo that spun, dragging him down.

_"Don't you fret, M'sieur Dominic…_

_You won't feel any pain."_

He had woken up from the nightmare in cold sweat and a feeling that his true nightmare had just begun.

The little nymph had cursed him. There he was, virtually unharmed with the exclusion of his impaired hearing, his scars not greeting any newcomers and not even the thinnest trails of blood being tracked down his body. He was punished, however. As soon as his initial blindness allowed to him basic shapes and colors, he was forced to walk around the land, seeing the gruesome images of the dismembered, disemboweled and insane. He could see nothing in their eyes, white with perplexity and sorrow. Some watched him in rage. They cursed him; surely a mother of three and a hard-working merchant were more of worth to that small city than this pathetic refugee from New Mexico.

A refugee. Some lamenting housewives called him that as he walked the shattered streets. Then they would pack up their clothes, scoop up their children and run amok out of the city limits. And when they left, Dominic stayed and watched their abandoned homes. Some left their broths on the stove, gurgling foam above the edges and spilling over. Some were coming home with their shopping bags. Not long after the blast, the women vanished into thin air, leaving only their groceries behind for the mangy dogs and street urchins to fight each other for.

A majority of them disappeared in the first few days. Those who stayed locked themselves into their homes, locking the doors and barricading the broken windows. They waited to die inside, nursing their wounds with brandy and sawing their unresponsive, paralyzed limbs with a kitchen knife. Some of those casualties walked around town, hopping in and out of their yards, looking for food. The Frenchman couldn't help but to stare at the men's clotted, fleshy stumps that ended above their knees. Even as they fell with exhaustion and dragged themselves by their fingernails across the cracked concrete, the former mercenary could only watch their misery, sometimes not even running to help them up.

Their blood flew through the street canals like a crimson river, and the unfortunate, living souls could only bring their arms up and curse God, if not asking for forgiveness or an explanation, at the very least. One of the first people Dominic saw in that state was the Engineer. His eyes were blank under his goggles. He had seen the end of the New Plague, but now he was seeing the end of the world. And while the man struggled to breathe, to live just long enough to get up and strangle the deceitful Frenchman and his German friend, Dominic could only think about how lucky the Texan was. Sure, he would die in agony. But at least he will die. He will not live to see himself turn into a failure, nor will he watch his comrades abandon him and hear swears they directed at him as their last, dying words.

They would not find themselves standing in the middle of that havoc, stock-still and looking at the setting sun. Their punishment would be quicker, and not laced with the bitter realization that man could never find refuge from a catastrophe, in any form.

Days came, weeks past, and the man still searched the streets for food. He remembered the group's arrival, each flashback more painful than the last. Arriving into Ukraine was anticlimactic. There were no lush forests, rivers of milk and honey or streets paved with the finest gold. The city was greeted with skepticism; they were almost on the verge of turning back and leaving. However, they were kept within its bounds with the sheer realization that they were now able to leave. Unlike inside the confines of the Queendom, this area was safe and accessible. They had their freedom here, away from the fear of an Infected attack. The more time they spent there, the more people they met. Most of the residents came into the area, guided by the premise of Ukraine being a paradise. Horatio, Lucy and Dolores, for example, were a small Australian family who fled into Europe after Lucy's father fell victim to an uncontrollable Infected horde. Horatio insisted that they swam the distance, fighting off rabid sharks. None of the BLUs believed their story of adventure and wonder. After he was done with his boasting, Horatio admitted that the city was far less than they had imagined it to be, but stayed here because they had no place to go. It was secluded from those wretched things, and that was good enough of a reason for anyone to stay.

Sitting in the sunken gray rubble of his home, Dominic could almost remember Lucy's high-pitched drawl, inviting the men for a cup of coffee on that cold, wet winter afternoon. Their home was the group's residence for some time. It was homely, reminding Dominic of the tiny house he had to share with his many rampant siblings. Just as he watched them die, he watched this city die as well. While the Texan died right in front of his eyes, the Soldier simply disappeared, and the Medic's fate was unknown.

Some said that they saw a tall man with round spectacles limping around his home, his face seeping down his hands as he melted. He coughed like he was choking, and then fell on his knees. That story, or many versions of it, crossed Dominic's mind.

Poor man. He just found his place in Ukraine, too. One of the migrants was his wife, no less. When Dominic first saw her, or rather a glimpse of her from behind the doctor's face and ecstatic hands, he barely managed to withhold a chuckle. The woman was a small, pudgy little thing, complete with greasy curls and a tattered nurse uniform. She explained that she packed very lightly, migrating to Ukraine. Her brother told her a rumor about it being a safe area, before he was sent off to the Harvest military base. The RED retreated with his bride in her small home, and didn't emerge from it for weeks.

Dominic shuffled through the papers sitting on his bed. He looked up into the gray, through the blown-off roof. His eyes narrowed. _Great. _More terror-dactyls. This place might have been safe from the Infected, but those disgusting things that sprawled from the same creator were still hovering above them, most of them appearing from the mushroom cloud, it seemed.

He huffed at the creature who cursed him with the gift of life. He had made his share of mistakes as well as accomplishments he prided himself of. Was there more to live for? Maybe only to die of radiation poisoning.

Dominic swallowed a heavy node in his throat, looking at the brownish sheet of paper, on the top of the pile. He found some documents in the doctor's abode. They were mostly journal entries, from the day he entered the city to the day before the blast. Licking his chapped lips, he read the first lines, the ugly, German words shaking before him.

_I was at the coffee shop, familiarizing with my colleagues when I heard the news. Anton was still boasting about his latest medical achievements. This time it was open-heart surgery performed in less than eight hours. I couldn't have cared less. I would have done it in twenty minutes, blindfolded. I even did, once. The Demoman was quite mad for being used as the test subject of mine and Heavy's dare, but he lived._

Dominic smirked, grabbing the sheet with both of his gloved hands.

_Suddenly, the barkeep leaned over the counter and asked for me. I looked up, lowering my beer. He said I was being called from the hospital. At first I thought my assistance was needed. It was a reflex I had yet to lose, the one I acquired at RED. Every time there was a problem, I was expected to rush in and help. But here, I wasn't a surgeon. I was a mere resident at the time. And then a flood of cold water washed over me. I stood up in a panic. I remember asking if something had happened to Natasha or the baby. I ran to the phone and I remember my fingers shaking against the plastic handle. I could barely hear the man on the other side, explaining the details to me. But I distinctly remember hearing the words 'congratulations' and 'a girl'. _

The Frenchman frowned at the gramophone, playing the same song verse it did when the blast occurred. It was getting almost impossible to read with that needle scratching. Honestly it was a miracle the thing still worked. The Engineer had it upgraded, but he had no idea how much. He growled at the jumpy, crackling noise interfering with his reading.

_… a pair of eyes… brighter than the summer skies… when you see them, you'll realize…_

_…realize… realize… realize…_

The man cupped his warm ears in his hands, hunching over the paper in his lap. In his frustration, he jumped over two whole paragraphs, his eyes landing on Natasha's name.

_Natasha was lying in that cheap, metal construction, an IV drip by her side and a half-full catheter bag showing under her ruffled sheets. Her hair was messy, her face swollen, her eyes wide and gleaming. She looked like a goddess that was hit by a bus and ran over by a steam engine. Forgive me, my love, if I'm being unromantic. I hope you never find this. _

_But the bundle that caught my attention was cradled on her bosom; a sticky, red, hairless creature with a crushed fame and flushed with exhaustion and anger. It whimpered on her, and I was staring at its form with my jaw hanging. I couldn't believe that this was growing inside her. The strange, ripe bump of Natasha's abdomen now had a face, a body, all ten fingers and toes (I hoped), hidden inside the pink cotton. _

_And there I was, gushing over an infant. The same thing that terrified and disgusted me once was being rocked in my arms and cooed at. I might never know what heaven's light felt like (God forbid, I never would have forgiven Him if He let me near it), but I feel this would be the closest thing a sinful mortal like myself could feel. _

That was so beautiful Dominic thought he would throw up.

Tired of reading this strange, emotionless language, he looked at the date while rubbing his throbbing temple. It was written no long ago, on his daughter's seventh birthday. Dominic once remembered a conversation he had with the man, concerning his apprehension of fatherhood. He said that he once loathed everything pertaining to children; their recklessness, their happy-go-lucky nature, even their height. He said that having a dwarf with the vocal range of a giant should have been medically impossible. Dominic listened to the man's arguments, taking notice that children might have been bothersome at times, but what he was saying took it to a whole new level. Then again, Dominic was not the most objective person when that subject was in question. He spent most of his youth surrounded by children, whether it may have been his siblings or aspiring protégés.

About two months from that conversation, the German approached the former Spy and announced, with a grim look, that Natasha was expecting.

Dominic congratulated them, his mouth skewed in empathy. The doctor simply muttered something under his breath and walked away.

But judging from these scriptures, Dominic could not recognize that the man who had written these words, almost in the form of admittedly mediocre poetry, was the same man who supported the idea of introducing an age-acceleration machine, where small children would be locked in and emerging fifteen years later.

The man sighed, folding the journal entries into small, neat squares.

Two bright blue eyes watched the old man study the scribbles of an eccentric doctor. They locked on the man, and he was forced to look at the small, dark-haired creature. She had her hands on the record player, spinning the same boring old verse repeatedly. As dull as it was, she didn't bring herself or the man to take the bouncing needle off the vinyl. It had become hypnotizing, soothing, and had the potential of being beautiful after a few more minutes. She didn't think Dominic would have had the patience to listen through it, though.

"Anything from Daddy?" She asked, jumping in front of him. The man looked at the seven-year-old apparition. He rose up the small squares.

"Just a few details on the day you were born," he said with a smile.

"What did he say?" She eagerly asked.

"He said you looked like a squished, shaved monkey."

"Did not!" She jumped with protest. "And when we find him, I'll ask him myself!"

Dominic's smile retreated back.

During the first day he spent wandering, he saw his colleague's daughter. She was running, looking for her parents. Her voice cracked between the buildings and all the nooks and crannies any creature could have crawled through. Tears rushed down her face, and she couldn't even wipe them fast enough. The people running in distress, wielding heavy suitcases and their small children, pushed her away. She bumped into them, continuing to holler in the distance, ignoring all those who told her to 'be quiet, he's dead anyway'.

Not normally being a part of her life, he was a big part of her father's. Also, the promise he made years ago still counted. A child would not be left behind to die in vain. Shaking away the initial discomfort, he came up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, over the strap of her dark blue overalls. He told her that he would get her home. This resulted in another burst of ugly sobbing, during which she begged him to help her find her parents. A part of him wanted to pry her away. Unfortunately, the only way of doing so was to make yet another promise that he couldn't fulfill. What was he supposed to do?

He would help her find her parents… or at the very least, keep her hoping that they could still be found.

With a grunt, he stood up, pocketing some of the journal entries.

"Come, Sara. _Allons-y._"

The girl hopped up and scampered through the adjacent door and through the corridor.

* * *

The air was putrid with tangy smoke and rotting, burnt flesh. Not because of the toxic fumes, but more because of the gray, heavy smoke that wisped through the roofs of the burnt buildings. Some emigrants decided to leave absolutely nothing behind; burning down their homes and reducing the chances of anyone finding anything of use in their houses. It was insanely selfish in Dominic's opinion. If you are to flee in cowardly panic, the least you could do is leave your belongings intact for those unlucky enough to be stuck there. It's common courtesy, at the very least.

Dominic's chain of thought was broken with Sara's bouncing. She hopped in and out of the murky puddles of either oil or blood, or possibly both mixed into a brownish, noxious compound. Her worn-out, red shoes were becoming black, and every step left an imprint on the gravely road.

"Hey, Dom?" She asked, running her fingers through her short, raven hair. "Where do you think my dad is? Because a lot of people left the country, and I don't know where he'd go."

"That depends," Dominic said flatly, considering the hypothetical options. He tried desperately to answer the question without thinking of the tales of a man with a molten face, dripping down his neck and into his own throat. "He could be in a number of places. He could return to Germany…"

"Without me?"

The man bit the inside of his cheek. "It is possible that he was rushed out on short notice. Imagine your father, pushed out of the city, yelling at me and pleading that I keep you safe…"

The young girl nodded at the possibility.

"Where else could they have taken him?"

"Oh, a number of places! There are more cities in Ukraine, you know. Or maybe they all immigrated to Russia. Maybe he and your mother are in Moscow, reading Tolstoy and waiting for me to return with their daughter."

Sara chuckled.

"Where else?"

"Well, I'm no expert, but there are a number of viable places they might have immigrated to. There's… Poland, for example!" He reached out his arm nonchalantly as he came up with the impossible possibility. "… Turkey, Kazakhstan, Romania…"

He suddenly heard a loud, sharp squawk. The two looked up and saw a dragon-like beast, flying above them. It's wings were stretched-out, and its beak spread wide. It curled its claws towards the Frenchman, ready to attack.

"… Yugoslavia…" he listed, taking out his butterfly knife. He pressed the palm of his hand against the girl's frame and pushed her away. She knew the procedure; she ran and hid behind an abandoned red Yugo 45. She watched her guardian spinning his butterfly knife in his hand.

With a loud battle cry, the bird descended down, its body sounding like a fired bullet as it surged through the tepid air. Dominic flashed his teeth at it, waiting for it. Once it was in range he inched away and stabbed it in the throat. In a quick motion, he made a foot-long incision across the terror-dactyl's neck. It roared in pain, splashing the Spy with its hot plasma. The man's once blue suit was completely soaked. He could not even take pleasure in seeing the mighty foe fall before him, releasing one final breath.

He groaned.

"Damn bird got blood on my suit again," he cursed, putting back the knife. With a waving hand gesture, he summoned his apprentice, walking over the creature's neck.

"Belarus, Slovakia, Hungary…" he continued.

"You know," Sara began, jumping over the creature's scaly neck with a grunt, "if what you're saying it's true, you're gonna have to take me to all those places to find him."

Dominic smirked at her, watching the girl skip behind him in her dirtied jeans dress. She loved that thing; never took it off. Her father bought it for her a couple of years ago. Dominic remembered the Medic showing it to him, asking for an honest opinion. He wanted his gifts to be perfect. In fact, he wanted everything to be perfect. The man loved his daughter more than he loved life itself.

And right there, in the middle of the road, in the midst of an abandoned city, the Frenchman began to wonder. He wondered about the things he lived through; from Marseilles to Chernobyl. Everywhere he went, somebody seemed to want his loved ones dead. And it wasn't always infected killer-zombies. People wanted him dead. People always wanted someone dead during a calamity. They think that killing off the surplus was the answer. Hell, that was the Queendom's policy. The newcomers were tortured, hunted down or assassinated. Reports were coming in about the many deaths caused by the Infected, and yet, Dominic never saw one. Most of those who died lost their lives during riots, committing suicide, killing people that stood in their way, becoming injured during the battles, or dying of exhaustion and disease. The number of people who were killed by the Infected was said to be in millions, but Dominic was skeptical. The number was closer to thousands, if that.

He thought about it for some time. Crisis turned people into monsters, and monsters into political leaders.

The girl's footsteps kept up with his own, their patter sounding like a faint echo. Once he realized that the echo wasn't there, he stopped. Upon turning his head back, he saw her pressing her nose and hands against the window of a toy store, ogling the trinkets inside. Most of them were knocked over, but still left behind. After all, they were not a priority. It was quite unfair that they would never be played with. Instead they lay there, on their shelves, guarded only by a thin sheet of glass and a _Sorry, we're closed _plastic sign.

"Do you want a toy, Sara?" Dominic asked, crouching on the ground and picking up a large foundation stone.

"Yeah, but it's lock - !"

The girl fell silent when the man threw the heavy stone into the shop window, making it shatter. The small particles of glass flew inside the building, and Sara had to turn her head back. The older man took her hand in his, guiding her over the wall, now reduced to a fence.

"Vandalism is wrong, Sara," he said with a tone a teacher might have while explaining something to first-graders. He helped her through the window.

"Okay."

The girl tightened her hand around his when she saw a strange shadow jumping in front of them. It was slightly shorter than he mentor, but twice as wide, slouching. She gasped, running her frame into Dominic's thing as he glared at the creature, slowly stepping into the arch of light. The first thing that came to attention was the man's large, blue helmet, covering his eyes. Stubble covered his scarred cheeks, running around his teeth, showed in a growl. The man pointed his shotgun at them, breathing heavily, loosening the collar of his blue army jacket, two hand grenades attached to the belt stretched around his torso. Recognizing the familiar, yet somewhat grotesque face, the Spy's brow furrowed further.

"Soldier, put down your – "

"No!" The crazed patriot shouted. "This is my toy store, this is my base! No trespassers allowed in the base! Get out or be shot!" He warned, pointing the barrel of the gun at the Frenchman, who did not even budge. Sara, however, did. She waved to the man who spoke in a language she did not understand. He worked with her dad… so she understood. The man nodded towards her before capturing Dominic back in his gaze. The tall, suited man exhaled sharply.

"Doe, we are not interested in infesting your precious base," he said through his teeth in a condescending tone.

Sara still watched the men talk in English, not understanding a word. Her mentor sounded differently when speaking in a foreign language. She couldn't explain it, he just sounded like he was less in control. She preferred him talking in his oddly accented Ukrainian, but that was completely up to personal preference. The man still hissed at the helmeted man holding them at gunpoint.

"Look," Dominic said, slapping his forehead, "we are not looking to alarm you. We are not here to take your ammunition, and we're certainly not here trying to convince you to join us."

"Good. Because I would never join you deserters, anyway!" The American concluded. "You made me run once, and I'm not running again!"

"Soldier, for God's sake, there is a radiation cloud as thick as pea soup dangling above us, I thing deserting is acceptable at this point!"

"Maybe in this shithole some people call Europe, but where I'm from, deserters would be prostituted!"

The Spy blinked once, his gaze deadpan.

"You mean prosecuted."

"That's what I said."

"Alright."

"Are you trying to correct something I've said?"

"Hardly."

"If you are, I swear to God – HEY!" The man pointed his gun at Sara, who immediately clutched the plush, red teddy-bear close to her chest. Her finger rested on one of his blue button-eyes. The American saw his reflection in them. "Put that down where you found it!"

"Soldier, give the kid her toy."

"It's not her toy and I told you not to touch anything of mine!"

"Soldier, you are a fully grown man. She is a seven-year-old girl. If she wants the bear, let her have the bear. What are you going to do with it, anyway? Build an army?"

"I might!"

"Oh, please…"

"You know, you were a whole lot more tolerable when your head was locked away in the RED Medic's fridge!"

"And I would like to thank you for your restless attempts at rescuing me. I had to spend two months in there," Dominic held out his index and middle finger, "Two whole months next to beer bottles and animal body parts!"

Sara clutched her new toy tightly, her eyes flickering from Soldier to the Spy, and then back to the Soldier again. Once she was bored with the undecipherable conversation, which might as well have been about the weather, she dragged her bear's long, lanky legs across the tape-covered floor. She liked the bear. The grime and dust from the floor attached itself to the threads of his feet. She dusted them off with a grimace, completely deaf to the on-going argument between the two men.

Dominic rose up his arms in defeat. "Fine, then! Have it your way! Stay in this toy store and die of starvation, for all I care. Unless the terror-dactyls get you first!"

"I can handle a few of those engorged excuses for parrots. The trick is to shoot them in the eye. I saw your technique, Delacroix. Frankly, it's no wonder you were always second in command."

Dominic's lip curled up in distraught. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, apart from an aggravated sigh. He looked at the alert Sara and nodded towards the door.

"We'll be taking the bear," he said to the Soldier, taking the girl's dusty palm and leading her out the window. The girl jumped over the small wall, her toy's legs flailing as she exited. The Spy was about a step away from exiting when the Soldier's voice brought him to a sudden halt.

"You keep running from this, Delacroix. That's all you ever did. If you can't cloak or hide you just hop out and run like hell."

The Frenchman's face grew red with anger, his fists tightened. The Medic's daughter watched his face in a curious way, almost asking him to speak, just one word. Still holding his heavy breath, the Spy let go of Sara's hand and walked up to the Soldier. The patriot still clenched his weapon, staring at the Frenchman once he brought himself into his face.

"Listen, Doe. I am usually a patient man. That does not mean I can sit around and wait for death, like you. I'm not the kind of person to pull the safety off the hand grenade and blow myself up for the greater good, though I think you should."

Grabbing him by the lapels, the Frenchman spoke in a brooding monotone. The Soldier listened intently, though with an evil eye.

"You are no good to your country dead. You might be one of those loyal, stoic warriors who sit around and wait for the enemy. Well then let me tell you something about myself. I am a Survivor. I am doomed to live. And I'll be damned if I live in a square box, cleaning my weapons and lamenting for the rest of my life. Now, do you see that girl standing there?" He moved his head away just enough for the Soldier to see the girl playing outside the store. She picked at the crossed threads that held the stuffed animal's button eyes. The Soldier frowned at her, quickly returning his gaze. The Frenchman continued; "That is the daughter of the man you oh-so-desperately tried to kill. Now her father is almost certainly dead. If you are willing to go ahead and tell her that looking for him is futile, and that she should just wait for a similar fate, that is alright by me. You are also welcome to join us in the search, possibly maximizing your chances of survival. But you are not to tell her it's hopeless. You are not to say she's running away. She is a survivor, just like we are. All Survivors are equal, remember?"

The man released his jacket from his grasp, taking a step back and glaring at him. At that point, Soldier both wanted to shoot him in the face and move out of his way. Instead he stood and watched his frame, his nostrils flaring.

Dominic gave a wry smile.

"The expression seems as fallacious as it did then, does it not?"

The Soldier watched the man leave, having the option of either joining them or staying cooped up in that small sanctuary. His very limited reason chose neither parallel at the time. He felt as though he was floating between both possibilities, and for the first time in his life, he felt uncertain.

Meanwhile, taking Sara's hand in his, Dominic marched forward. He really was escaping, he knew that. But his escape was a pursuit of his new home. He traveled the world like a nomad, never residing anywhere for too long, moving from one mission to the next. His feet were sore and calloused, his eyes dry and tired. More and more did his mind roam the carefree adolescence that took place within the bounds of Marseilles. Sadly, the once proud memorial of his youth was reduced to rubble and cement. Every step he took after that was taken by a different person, a man of no past or future. Through his life, he secretly looked for his new home. Just for a second, he thought that he had found it in Ukraine, before this catastrophe happened. His Patria dangled just above him, slipping through his fingers once he finally managed to catch her strings.

Once again, man's errors left him without a home, without an identity. All he had was a flickering light of senseless hope and a silly child following him by his side. They walked into the setting sun, having no final destination but instead having many stops.

It was just a bit too familiar for comfort.

* * *

_Harvest, 1988_

"I know about my dad," Sara said in her heavily accented yet endurable English. The man she was speaking to was examining the mechanical arm she brought from the field of bones she stumbled across. The man lifted up his helmet, not expecting this answer. After all, he only mentioned her father jokingly, saying that he probably would have attached this hunk of metal to his stump, to replace the hand he lost during the blast. Then she said the world neither him nor Dominic expected to hear. Except the Frenchman didn't hear them; he was busy studying the inscription on the door.

"Since," the man gulped, looking into her bright eyes. "Since when?"

"Since we made it to Poland. My dad hated Poland. He never would have gone there."

The American said nothing, his mind flooding with inappropriate Germany-Poland jokes. He cleared his throat and scratched his moist neck.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I could not. Dom wants to find my dad. I can't break his heart."

Doe watched the run-down base with unease. Joining the team was regrettable at times, especially when some of this emotional nonsense came into question. He was never good at dealing with it.

"So, what are you…" he cleared his throat. "What are you going to do now?"

The girl shrugged.

"I guess I'll just… keep going. Until I die."

The moment was interrupted by Dominic's insistence that they leave immediately.

_Allons-y._

And so, the three were off. Four, if the now tattered and pale bear was included in the group as a true member. Sara kept him under her forearm.

"Dom, what's gonna happen when I die?" She asked curiously.

The two men exchanged glances. The Frenchman kicked a pebble with the tip of his boot, squinting at the sun.

"I honestly have no idea."

He did know one thing, though.

He did not want to find out.

* * *

_Pan on three silhouettes looking straight into the sun. As the white light sharpens through their contours, enhance the ear-numbing ringing noise similar to a knife scratching a porcelain plate; or fingernails on a chalkboard._

_Continue until screen is a complete hue of whiteness._

_Cut to black with a loud thud of a battle drum._

**The End**

_Roll the credits._

_Fire the writers._


End file.
